


In Case You Don't Live Forever

by KassandraRose, Offspring_of_Athena



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Romance, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-07 20:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19857856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassandraRose/pseuds/KassandraRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Offspring_of_Athena/pseuds/Offspring_of_Athena
Summary: Co-written by Kassandra Rose and Offspring of Athena. {Kas and Court}.Peter Parker has a dream— who doesn’t?— help a few folk out, earn a good, aspiring internship, and make a difference in the world. Being a friendly neighbourhood spider tends to help, of course.All comes to a head, when the opportunity of a lifetime springs up with his idol, Tony Stark, the notorious Iron Man. Can he balance what it means to be a hero and a kid? Or, will he be unable to resist tearing pieces from himself in order to make others whole?Sophia Alcott Brusetti— the name that would spring to your mind for ‘female Tony Stark’ (If Tony Stark was sixteen years of age and counting, that is) — embarks on a new journey when she enrolls at Midtown High. Broken, Orphaned, and Alone, the perfect candidate for Spidey’s charity advocate. Will our two protagonists set together to solve the murdered-parents mystery? Or will greater forces pry them apart?Read ahead as we delve deep into the Marvel Universe. Go head to head with the Green Goblin. Embark on the emotional rollercoaster of Peter and Tony. And, chuckle aloud at the musings of your protagonists.What are you waiting for?





	1. Where Worlds Collide: Midtown High

**Tony Stark:**

“Wake up, dear. Say goodbye to your father”. The blanket upon the couch gave a small squirm, the audience of school children perchance would never have guessed it was an actual human being had it not. From beneath, a young looking Tony Stark emerged, beard and moustache free, also free of worries, though not particularly of problems, which was perhaps why he had sought the many empty bottles of ale that were strewn around his make-shift bed.

“Who's the homeless person on the couch?” Howard jested at his expense. Something the younger Stark clearly did not appreciate, a rugged scowl tugging down upon his lips. Stumbling, alas, to his two feet, Tony brushed down on his pyjama pants, and made his way towards his mother to give her a hug. His eyes ran along her neatly kept appearance, from her crisp and untouched suit to her pristinely combed hair. She was almost flawless, too perfect to be real. “This is why I love coming home for Christmas,” Tony whipped back in retaliation, his eyes narrowed his father’s way, over the woman’s should. “It’s just when you leave town”. 

“Be nice, dear,” his mother cooed, from his right-hand shoulder, her fingers combing his hair as though he were but a young boy again. “He's tired,” she pulled back, brushing his cheek tenderly. “He’s been studying abroad”. There was a sparkle in her eyes — pride? — something that he’d never seen in that moment, but wished he had. Something that he had taken for granted, or simply overlooked because of his blind hatred for his father.

“Really, which broad? What's her name?” Howard retorted, as though a young school boy himself. A reminder to Tony just why he’d overlooked it all. It had been impossible not to, with the old man piping up from his arm chair, or wherever her pompously held himself this time.

“Candice,” the two Starks quipped at the same time. One of them a lot more rugged than the other, in spite of the killer hangover that lured over the younger man. Stark had relived this moment many times, so much so that he knew how it went, knew the transcript by heart. 

“Funny,” Howard replied, not in the slightest portraying any kind of amusement. “Do me a favor?” He extended his index finger, demanding with that ever so righteousness that Tony could recall him always having. “Try not to burn the house down before Monday.”

“Okay, so it's Monday? Gotcha. That is good to know. I’ll plan my toker party accordingly,” the young man retreated from his mother’s side, resting himself upon the arm of the settee behind him. “Where're you going?” the question left his lips with an air of nonchalance, as though he were asking the news or a simple maths equation, cascading the inner tinge of disheartenment that cradled his insides, being left for the Christmas season once more. 

“You father's flying us to the Bahamas for a little get away.” The Bahamas? Wow. He supposed what they said was true for some. ‘Tis the seasons to be jolly. “We might have to make a quick stop,” his father added to his mother’s response. Although, Tony scarcely felt there was any need for him to do so, other than to rub in salt into his son’s wounds, the sweet salt of success.

“At the Pentagon. Right?” Tony gave a bitter laugh, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “Don't worry,” he told his mom, as a matter of a factly. “You're going to love the holiday menu at the commissure”. Bringing the right hand to his lips in the ‘perfect’ notion, he kissed his index finger thumb, before releasing it to the air. “Isn’t that right, old man? I spent many a holiday with them good ol’ strangers. Though, I suppose it’s better than being alone”. A hugely false smile was flung his father’s direction. Yet, Howard was no more deterred.

“You know, they say sarcasm is a metric for potential. If that's true, you'll be a great man some day,” Both Tony’s visibly winced. Although, the older, much more practiced one, was not as visible to the audience. Turning to his wife, Howard dismissed his son. “I'll get the bags, then?”

Stark’s mom gave him a nod, before turning to her son once more, and placing a small kiss upon his forehead. Her voice was low, or had been, intentionally, so that Howard would not hear her. The schoolchildren still would. “He does miss you when you are not here. And frankly, you're going to miss us...” she told his younger self. “Because this is the last time we're all going to be together. You know what's about to happen, Tony... Say something... If you don't, you'll regret it”.

If you don’t, you’ll regret it.

If you don’t, you’ll regret it.

“I love you, Dad. And I knew you did the best you could”. The scene paused. All three of the people on the stage froze, before the entirety of the living room — including the trio — disappeared. All that was left was a much older, brooding Tony Stark, whom pushed his red shades further up his nose in order to hide the tear sting within his sweet brown eyes.

“That's how I wished it happened,” he told the audience, pausing, to look at where they had all stood before him. To where his mother had just a few seconds ago been re-animated and revived before his very eyes. “It didn’t, of course... happen, I mean. My mother didn’t know that she was going to die. Not even I can predict that yet, with all my technology. But, I can... however, recreate that day, by merely augmented retro framing... or "BARF". God... I gotta work on that acronym,” Tony paused, tugging on the collar of his sleek black tuxedo, his dark brown orbs like black holes set upon the audience. “BARF is... an extremely costly method of hijacking the hippocampus to clear... traumatic memories. It doesn't change the fact that they never made it to the airport, or the things I did to avoid processing my grief. Plus, 611 million dollars for my little therapeutic experiment. No one in the right mind would ever funded it. Help me out. What's the MIT University admission statement? And don’t leave me hanging,” his arms held out, embracing the air, hands pushing forward as though to encourage an answer from the audience. Joining them, he smiled. “To generate, disseminate and preserve knowledge, and work with others, to bring to bear on the world's great challenges.... Yeah, that’s right. Well, you, or the others. And quite as it kept... the challenges facing you are the greatest mankind has ever known. Plus, most of you are broke. For this reason, as of this moment, every student has been given the opportunity to apply for the Inaugural September Foundation Grant. As in, all of your projects have just been approved and funded. No strings. No taxes. Just... reframe the future. Starting now. The lucky candidate... choosing of moi, will get a personal internship at Stark Industries. Yes, that’s right. You heard me”.

  


**Peter Parker:**

Iron Man, Tony Stark, Mr. Stark, was going to be in the same room as him, Peter Parker, in less than three hours. Ever since they had announced the event, Peter had been imagining all the ways he may end up running into him, his childhood hero. 

Peter had always looked up to the Stark family, he liked to call them the scientific revolutionaries. He had researched the good, the bad, and the ugly sides of their family history, the bit that was available to the public that is. There were some achievements he didn’t agree with, war weapons being one of them. Peter had always held the belief that science should only be used to save or improve people’s lives. Weapons of mass destruction disgusted him. He had never and would never understand why human’s strived to be gods, but always ended up like Icarus. He couldn’t deny that even ill intended science helped pave the way for other breakthroughs.

Science was one large, never ending brainstorming session, on an eternal loop of trial and error. There was one thing science taught all that pursued it, failure. Experiments resulted in further frustration at least three fourths of the time, with the occasional development. It was invigorating and taxing, not a field of study meant for the weak hearted, which made it the perfect fit for one Peter Parker. There was no challenge he would back down from. 

Standing in front of the mirror, Peter turned his body from side to side to ensure his outfit looked okay. He knew that it was extremely unlikely that Tony Stark would notice him, but he didn’t want to be unprepared if he did. A soft knock sounded on his door.

“Come in,” he chirped, untying his tie for the eighth time that morning. His Aunt May appeared in the mirror, hovering over his shoulder watching him fiddle with the clothe. A warm smile appeared on her lips, as she reached out and took his shoulders in her hand and turned him to face her. 

“You can’t let the tie wear you Peter, you have to wear it,” she teased, taking the two ends in her hands. She began to loop them and pull them. “If I knew that all it took was Tony Stark to get you to wear a tie I would have exploited that a long time ago.” 

“May!” Peter yelled, feeling embarrassed for how transparent he was. She pulled it snuggly around his neck and turned him back to the mirror so he could take a look for himself. 

“I’m just saying! You look nice. I would want you to work for my company,” she complimented. Peter pulled on the sides of his blazer. “Stop fidgeting, you look fine. Now hurry up or you’ll be late and miss him altogether.” She tossed him his backpack and walked out of the room, grabbing her car keys. Peter lingered in front of the mirror, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark washed jeans to straighten them out before heading out after May, slinging his backpack on as he went.

School that morning was an absolute zoo. Most of the students only cared about the assembly as a means to get out of class, ignoring the fact that an actual genius and B list celebrity was coming to their school. The bell rang, signaling them all to start filing into the assembly hall. Peter started to make his way over, but paused in front of a single wall in the main hallway. He looked up at the image there, one he had practically memorized by now, looking to it everyday before heading into class. Today was different though, today, for some reason he couldn’t place, it incurred a different type of emotion. He usually looked to this wall for inspiration in the darkest of times, but today when he looked at it, he didn’t just feel that sense of hope, he actually felt like today something was going to change, something that would change his life forever. 

Midtown had dedicated a mural in Howard Stark’s honor years ago. An image of his promised City of the Future, a project he never got to finish, but passed onto his son Tony, who was in this very building right now. Painted across the top of the mural like a banner were some of Howard’s most impactful words, Everything is achievable through technology – better living, robust health and for the first time in human history, the possibility of world peace. Everything you'll need in the future can be found right here.

Peter guessed that this was the school’s attempt for students to believe that their hallowed halls of learning was the here of that statement and maybe it was. He had made friends here, found supportive teachers, and accidentally an additional sense of purpose with his new abilities. Maybe he’d find something else here as well. 

With an optimistic grin he turned and joined his classmates and friends in the spongy auditorium seats.

Spotting Ned in the third row of seats, he slipped into the seat next to him. 

“Hey man, thanks for saving me a seat.” He had barely finished his sentence when the lights went down and the presentation began. Displayed before them was a scene, no a memory plucked from the depths of Tony Stark’s mind. It was a brave,bold, and vulnerable move. He could have selected the most trivial memory in his mind to showcase how the technology worked, instead he showed them the intimate inner workings of his relationship with his parents. 

Then the voice of one of the players on stage, though aged, broke through the auditorium as the scene began to fade from view. There he was. Tony Stark in the flesh, hiding his emotions. It would probably fool most of the audience, but Peter’s improved vision allowed him to pick up the smallest of changes in body language and put the pieces together. The scene, no matter how many times he was sure Tony had played it to himself, had struck an emotional cord within him. Peter felt the small formation of his own tear in the corner of his eye, imagining being able to do the same thing with his Uncle Ben or with the few memories of his parents he had deep down stored somewhere he could not reach. 

Pretending to itch at the spot, he sat back in his chair, his leg bouncing with nerves. He joined everyone in the MIT chant, smiling at the fact that some students were just mumbling sounds to sound like they knew it.

The lucky candidate... choosing of moi, will get a personal internship at Stark Industries. Yes, that’s right. You heard me

Peter shot forward, perched on the end of his seat, his eyes gleaming with a spark of ambition and excitement. He glanced at Ned in disbelief and then back to the stage. A chance to work with Mr. Stark. A chance to work with his scientific idol. A chance he could not and would not miss.

  


**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

**"Strike a pose".**

The voice rang out, amongst the blurred accumulated noise from the lunch tables nearby. Sophia shook her head, a hum of laughter escaping her pink, parted lips like the sound of a honey bee buzzing against the ripe summer's breeze. Yet, the camera man would not be deterred, "you can't not, it's for the yearbook. The yearbook".

"Okay... ok," the mousey blonde held up her hands in surrender. She snuggled a little closer to Jessica, pointing her head over her shoulder so that she faced the focusing lens. The white haired cheerleader besides her immediately flashed her pearly whites, a smile to die for, or so they all said. Although Sophia inwardly cringed at the phrase, Jessica Lange was supposedly one of the "most popular girls in school". Being amazing in absolutely everything, in her spare time the girl volunteered to be a student body respresentative, or so she said. Sophia wasn't sure that really entailed, having spent so long being home schooled. It must have been something to do with new people, or something... because she hadn't left Alcott alone at all the day she had joined. Maybe, it was the billionaire charm. That usually tended to do the trick. Frankly, however, Sophia felt like a parasite, living in the sunshine and glory of another person. It was simply another reason for the insecurities. Boy, that list was getting big. She supposed eventually it was gonna rival a Dickensian novel.

Sophia, herself, attempted her own smile - though it was neither as genuine nor as beautiful as her friend's. Her own teeth remained cascaded, hidden by her rosy, plump lips, which were merely drew by the corners into a smile that did not quite reach the eyes. The camera flashed. The picture was taken. The torment was over. Or, it ought to have been.

**It wasn't.**

As if a trigger to the gun of a haunting past, the flash of the camera brought to her mind a rush clip of that night, the clip that haunted her sleep, that plagued her nights, all night, every night. Her mother, her dainty arms crimson and dirtied, in the mud. Red, everywhere - even her favourite strawberry dress. Everywhere. "Run, Sophia, run," the woman had cried, and she did. She hadn't looked back. But she knew. She knew very well that her mother had survived the crash, despite what they said.

"Earth to Soph," Jessica wavered her hand, in front of ther girl's face.

"Sorry, what?" The impact back to real life was hard, quick, sudden. All of a sudden, the bumbling noise of the crowded lunchroom returned.

"Your timetable says that you have chemistry next, I can show you to your room, if you want," the bleached blonde gave yet another million-dollar smile.

"Oh lookie, you're in the honours class," Wendy crinkled her nose, swiping the schedule from the duo, before picking up her spoon and digging it into her strawberry mousse. "That's the _dork_ class. Although, they throw in a few who need of some brain cells, y'know, in hopes the smarty-ness will rub off". The shiny, silver shovel was lifted to her lips, which parted like a train tunnel and enclosed around the strawberry goodiness. "Flash is in that class". The other three girls exchanged a look, as if they knew something that Sophia did not. It tied knots and knots within the depths of her stomach. "...I overheard Mary Jane saying it was practical day. You're doing... titration? Yeah, titration or something".

"What's titron?" Jessica's eyebrow's furrowed. She wasn't the brightest tool in the shed. "You know what, I don't care," she rolled her eyes, leaning comfortably back into her chair. "Props to you for putting up with the dorks. Lets see how well you put up with Penis and his pathetic little friend".

"I'm sorry, _what_ ?" Sophia repeated, struggling not to choke on her sparkling water. Did she just say what she thought she said, or had she been hallucinating? Surely, it was the second... right? It appeared that she was never going to find out, for Jessica continued with, "onto the more important things, did you hear that Stacey-Lee got a boob job over the summer? Can you believe that? She totally heard that daddy paid to get my nose done over spring break. You know... she's _always_ trying to compete with me". The nasal tone was enough to lull Sophia back into her own world, as she dazed across the canteen, chewing and poking at her own dessert. She wondered who the hell this poor guy was, and whatever he'd done to be dessignated this unfortunate nickname. She didn't know much about school, but she knew that it wasn't completely uncivilised. Or, at least that's how it looked in the movies.

Beneath the table, her phone beeped.

Of course. Another cancellation. Her heart sunk to her stomach. You know for someone with all the money in the world, Tony was constantly busy doing things that he "didn't want to do". You'd think that money could buy your way out of those things but apparently not. More importantly, for all that supposed intelligence, his messages were always so incomprehensible, to try and read them was as if to attempt to unravel the Da Vinci code. Not the least bit surprised, Sophia simply shoved the phone back into her backpack. As the bell rang across home room, signalling the commencement of the school day, she retrieved her time table from the group of cheerleaders, slipping it inside her notebook which she clutched to her chest.

***

"Here we are, Chem Lab 02," Jessica extended her arm towards the decrepit, blue door, whose paint was cracking slowly but surely. For a moment, Soph almost expected this to be a scene fresh out of Stephen King, like Carrie. This would be a janitors closet, where they were gonna lock her in and torment her. However, as the door freaked open, her imagination was disappoint to uncover, indeed, just a normal classroom.

"Thank you," she mouthed to Jessica, who nodded before carting down the corridor towards her next class, if cheerleaders even attempted such a thing. In movies they were always too cool to do anything but cheer, right? As she shuffled slowly into class, these thoughts plaguing her mind, she failed to see the soft brown locks of the boy before her. There was a sudden, and harsh, crash, as she led herself right into the back of him, and somehow stumbled onto the ground.

"Use the bunsen burner in your experiment, and make sure the nozzle is secured. " The substitute read word for word what instructions were left for him. It was basically a distant hum in the back of her mind as she attempted to scrape what was left of her dignity from the floor. “Then, align the washer above..."

"Sir? We have the instruction packet already." Betty Brant, whom Sophia recognised form Calculus, interrupted him."We can probably read it from here." Aside from a grumbling sound, the substitute shut up and resigned himself to the teacher's desk where he sat there and read an incredibly thick book. Sophia concentrates on gathering her belongings together, before turning her attention to her attacker: some brown haired guy she barely knew who would probably use his job as an excuse for being late, when in reality his only job was getting high at night. Ouch, Soph, no need to get so angsty, she scolded herself, muttering only a half-hearted “sorry” beneath her breath. Her high cheekbones were flushed a hot rouge. The girl was so unfamiliar to him that he continued to stare, as did others in the classroom when they noticed her. Her hair, a cross between straight and bushy, was bright with thick locks of brown. The long ends cascaded down her back like a cape. She wore a tan silk top that left just a slimmer of skin visible above the black jeans pants, doing little to hide the backpack straps. A thin, nonchalant jacket covered it all. All at once, the substitute slowed to a halt by the door to the classroom and wheezed for breath as he ushered her towards a seat.The administrator explained who he was with: "Greetings, Students. We have a newcomer to the school”. The substitute coughed as he finished talking, to fill the awkwardness of the silence. "Does anyone have any questions for her?"

"Can I get your number?" Flash chuckled aloud and earned a collective laugh from his buddies. The teacher didn't seem amused by the joking response.

"I'll take that as a no." He scanned the classroom broadly and nodded. "Until Mr.Conners gets back to give you an official seating, you'll sit with Mr.Parker, the young man in the back."

Flash laughed again and elbowed his buddy. "Snrkt. Penis Parker."

Ah, so **that** was who Jessica had been talking about. Still, it didn't really make sense... If his name was Peter, why was he called Penis? Peter sounded nothing at all like that word... Sure, if his name was Denis or something, it would make more sense, but Peter? Nah. There was probably a million better ways to taunt somebody, if you had the intelligence to sit and think about it. Clearly, Parker’s tormentor was one of the "lacking brain cells" who were placed in the class, in hopes that intelligence was contagious — but proof that, indeed, it was not.

In some ways, Sophia was glad that she hadn't had to choose somewhere to sit; it would've been awkward, aimlessly loitering about and asking "is anyone sitting there?" When 99% of people were going to say yes, truth or not. Yet, in other ways, to be assigned a seat next to what appeared to be the classroom's biggest victim was somewhat of a disappointment for as far as first days at school went. She was sure that Tony would be very much amused later when- well, whenever she got around to actually sitting down and talking to him. Considering he'd cancelled every time for the last 3 weeks, it was starting to look very unlikely.

Her cheeks still flustered from the remark, from the annoying brash boy, and frankly falling upon her ass, she allowed her soft silver eyes to follow in the direction that the teacher had pointed. When her silvery eyes fell upon him, she couldn't help but wonder why the boy was so tormented? As far as she could see, he seemed pretty damn normal. Everything about him was your basic sophomore student, from his shoes to his very plain tee. In fact, he was neither ugly, nor fat. His face would probably never be in Vogue, and he didn't have the shape of a Calvin Klein underwear model. Yet, he wasn't hard to the eye. His face was actually rather soft, though not without manly edge. Better more, his unkempt locks pooled with them matching brown eyes were definitely enough to make somebody feel warm inside, a lot like a small puppy or even kitten. Indeed, Parker gave out a rather warm vibe. He seemed friendly enough too, not overpaying attention or being intrusive, as his tormentor was, but giving enough of a smile and a glance to remain polite and courteous. Stark would like the kid. He seemed like quite studious, from what she could tell, that was. Cheeks already flushing, and wanting the hour to be over with, so that she could speak to Tony sooner rather than later, Alcott-Brusetti kept her head down, without as much as a grumble to greet her lab partner, and left him to his business politely.

***

She watched him finish his emotional performance from the back, with Jessica and her friends. Yet, as the assembly finished, and the auditorium began to pour out, student by student, Alcott-Brusetti pretended to have forgotten her phone so that she could slip away from the girls surrounding her, and head on right towards Tony, who was, albeit reluctantly engaging in conversation with someone that she recognised as Mr Philips, a 12th grade physics teacher.

_“Does— uhm, well, what I really want to ask was— does the sponsorship apply to... well, teacher projects too?”_

Sophia refrained from snorting, shoving her hands in her trouser pockets and balancing her weight on her back foot, as she patiently awaited her turn to speak. Tony, who glanced around the auditorium in search of sweet relief from human interaction, exchanged wide-eye contact with her, contact that screamed for assistance. She decided, instead, to kick back, and allow herself to be entertained — something to make up for him letting her down, endlessly.

“Of course,” he wavered his hand in dismissal, obviously looking over the man’s shoulder to alert him that they had company. Nice move, she noted, with a mental chuckle, but remained silent all the same, until the teach turned, and she wriggled her fingers in a childish ‘hello’. 

“Ms Brusetti, me and Mr Stark are trying to have an _adult_ conversation. If you do not mind waiting until after, I’m sure we can talk about the upcoming exam in—“

“Hi , _uncle Tony_ ,” she ensured to accentuate his name. Ignoring the teacher, she persisted, “you wanted to talk to me?” Mr Philips, whose mouth opened and shut, like a gaping fish for air, took a step back, startled by the revelation and understanding his defeat. “Of course...” she attempted to taunt him— who was, by no means, truly a relative in anything except her dreams, “if you are busy, I can always wait for later. If later ever comes, that is. You see, Mr Stark is quite— what’s the word?— someone who is neither here nor there, can be available, may not be... p-p—“

Tony forced a laugh, wrapping a single arm around her, feigning a fatherly embrace, which was not in the least bit natural to him, simply coming across as awkward. “Aha! That’s Sophia for you... always got something to say,” he added with grit teeth. “And you’ve brought... friends?” Stark glanced over her own shoulder, his eyes flickering from the boy she recognised from Chem class, and a face she’d not quite seen before.

“NO! I mean... no, I don’t know them. I mean, I know them, just... Parker isn’t one of my friends,” she narrowed her eyes at their intrusion, or rather lack off. It wasn’t as though they’d enforced themselves on the conversation. They’d probably just waited behind in hopes of catching Tony. And, Stark, searching for a distraction, no doubt, had given them the opportunity they had sought. 

“Parker, is it?” He bellowed down to the kid, wriggling out from between the pressures of teacher and God daughter. “Nice to meet you, kid”. He extended his hand to the one that Sophia had acknowledged. “Always nice to meet a friend of Sophia’s”.

“Not a friend...” she grumbled, attempting to keep up, trailing behind. 

Tony ignored her. “And you,” he nodded, regally, at Ned. “You got a name, kid?” Shoving his hands in his blazer pockets, shoulders arched back, a trait that Alcott-Brusetti had clearly inherited from being near to him, Tony gestured around him. “You gonna apply for the science project?”


	2. Bubble, bubble, ideas toil and trouble

**Peter Parker:**

With that final challenge hanging in the air, the lights brightened, bathing the audience in a yellow glow. Peter spun to face Ned, his face like a puppy that had just been told it was going for a walk. He jabbed a thumb at the stage, as annoyed students filtered out from either side of them. 

“Did you hear that? An internship with Mr. Stark, well Stark Industries, but he would look at my work. My _work_ …” His breath became ragged, excitement sucking up all his oxygen. “Whew I’m getting all worked up about just a possibility,” he chuckled at how ridiculous he was. “Sorry, I’m just, wow, wow,” he panted, squeezing his knee caps. With a shake of his head he hooked his backpack onto his arm. He realized they were some of the last people in the auditorium. One of their teachers remained, trying to worm his way into the competition and chatting it up with a rather uninterested looking Mr. Stark. The shifting eyes and far off stare conveyed that he wasn’t interested and yet their teacher was not getting the message. 

Peter noticed someone else lingering back in the auditorium, the new girl, what was her name again? Sarah? No. Sophia! Yea that was it. He didn’t know her very well, having just met her yesterday in advanced chemistry. 

\-----------

Her entrance to the classroom was rather unfortunate. Having bumped into someone was promptly sent sprawling onto the floor, her things flying every which way. Peter had risen halfway out of his seat to help her, when she seemed to get it together and the teacher began to introduce her. He had glared at him, only drawing more attention to her with his announcement. Then Flash was off to the races with his awful jokes. God, he was such a disgusting pig sometimes. 

_Penis Parker._

Peter’s eyes rolled. He’d given up fighting the completely uncreative and truly odd nickname months ago. Flash was the kind of immature that could not be reasoned with no matter how hard he tried. His eyes flickered to the body that took the seat next to him. Offering her a warm smile, trying to replace the feeling of dread she must have with one of welcome. When their eyes met, he felt himself blush. She was pretty he couldn’t deny that. Dirty blonde locks contrasted with bright blue eyes. Never one to stare, however, Peter cleared his throat and quickly turned back to his notes. 

\--------------

That was the last he had seen of her until this moment. She was lingering back waiting for the conversation in front of her to wrap up. Was she going out for the internship too? Maybe they would have some friendly competition going between them. Should he talk to Mr. Stark too? He couldn’t let her get the upper hand, but he didn’t necessarily want to seem like a kiss up either. 

“Come on, Ned, let’s make a break for it,” he muttered, starting to shimmy passed the now empty chairs. He stood at the end of the aisle waiting for his friend and savored one last look at his idol before they left. Having been sat in the third row, they were in rather close proximity to them. Close enough to be mistaken as additional company. Stepping towards the exit he felt Tony’s hazel eyes suddenly lock onto his own. Peter felt his heart flutter for a moment, sweat beginning to form on his palms. He hated to be stared at by anyone, but especially by Tony Stark. _Friends?_ He looked at Sophia and back to Tony. He’d assumed they were friends because it looked like he and Ned were waiting for her as if they were all about to go off and do whatever it was normal, social teens did.

“Oh, no, no,” he insisted, waving his hands in front of him to block the notion. “W-we’re just lab partners that’s all…” His tongue felt heavy like lead, his mouth drying quicker than a glass of water in the desert. Parker, is it? Peter jumped hearing his name boom from Tony’s mouth. He reached up gripping onto his backpack strap for dear life. Peter felt his body instinctively swivel back slightly at Tony’s spontaneous approach. His eyes widened and he gulped back the bile rising in his throat. 

His eyes darted to the hand that extended towards him. He hesitated for a moment, his brain only seeming to be able to internally scream, but not function. Eyeballs feeling dry from lack of blinking, he finally let them flutter closed as if broken out of some sort of trance. They glazed over, Parker reduced to a doe eyed boy for a moment. Quickly wiping his sweaty palm on his backpack strap, he reached out and clutched Tony’s hand and gave it a firm shake. 

“Yes, I’m-I’m Parker, Peter Parker. N-nice to meet you Mr. Tony Stark, er sorry Mr. Stark. Great to meet you really, I’m a big fan,” his voice was tight no matter how casual he tried to force it into casualness. “You’re work is truly inspiring sir.” Realizing he had held onto Tony’s hand for longer than appropriate, he went to quickly pull it away only to find it stuck. He pulled again with an awkward laugh, his spider powers having activated under the high stress, the tiny hairs of his palm now clinging to Stark's hand. Finally pulling it free, he swept it through his light brown locks. “It’s an honor to meet you," he added, trying to distract from the weirdness of what had just happened.

He glanced at Ned who had been caught in the middle of his fan boying once again, but in a far more awkward manner this time. Looking at his friend brought him a small sense of calm, the familiar face and comfort of having him there ebbing at the jitters. While they spoke, he glanced at Sophia. He mouthed an apology, not having meant to creep into her conversation like this. The sound of Tony addressing him again caused his head to whip around, dislodging the pen he stored behind his ear, it hit the carpeted floor without so much as a peep. Snapping down, Peter picked it up and used it to point at his chest.

“Me? Oh, yeah! I have been waiting for this kind of opportunity my entire life. To work for a company like Stark Industries, to do some good for the world, I mean that’s the goal right? That’s the point of science, or well, it should be.” His words came out rushed, tripping over each other in quick succession. A small pool of heat formed in a line across his face from cheek to cheek, arching over the bridge of his nose as well. “Hope I don’t disappoint you,” he said, grinning at him. He felt Sophia’s presence again and glanced at her. “But uh, I don’t want to interrupt you two.” Using his pen as a pointer he moved it between Sophia and Tony.

**Tony Stark:**

_Yes, I’m— I’m Parker, Peter Parker. N-nice to meet you Mr Tony Stark, er sorry Mr Stark. Great to meet you really, I’m a big fan. Your work is truly inspiring sir_ . Tony’s dark, chocolate buttons flickered between Peter Parker and Sophia Brusetti, his thick eyebrows furrowing as she cast him an empty look, accompanied with a shrug of her slender shoulders. Having never been good at coping with emotions, Tony inwardly cringed, only glancing at the kids hand when the handshake went from hugely awkward... to downright uncomfortable, attempting to itch his hand free. When finally released from Parker, Peter Parker’s grasp, the billionaire wiped his palm upon his black, suit pants, as though to eradicate whatever disease it was that made the kid a rambling idiot, and made a mental note to use his sanitiser once out of sight. “Always good to meet... a _fan_ ”. He eyed the kid, over the rim of his glasses, before his eyes flickered to his companion. Did that kid really just ‘pal’ him, when he gave his name? Him? Tony Stark? Richest man in America? Genius whom had two masters degrees when he were around the same age as the two before him? Surely not.

“Me? Oh, yeah!” The kid gushed. “I have been waiting for this opportunity my entire life...” at this Tony began to zone out. His mind flickering to the things that he could be doing at this very moment, but was being prevented by this very same conversation. First of all, he needed to tweak JARVIS, having found a few bugs and glitches that needed to be fixed the night before. Then, of course, there was the matter of getting back to Fury, whom had impatience to rival his own, and wouldn’t accept the continuation of “you’ve reached the voicemail of Tony Stark, frankly I didn’t care enough to fit you into my day, right now, please try again never” much longer. By the time Stark had returned from his retreat to his subconsciousness, the kid was looking at him with doe eyes, as though anticipating an answer. He presumed he’d been asked a question, but couldn’t for the life of him locate what exactly it was about, never mind the wording itself. “Sure,” he nodded, curving his lips into a stiff and false smile, an action he felt came more instinctive than breathing itself, for he did it just as much these days.

Funnily enough, when the time came for Peter Parker to depart, almost excusing himself, he’d actually managed to entice Tony’s attention. _Hope I don’t disappoint you._ The words repeated in his head. Over and over again. Like an echo within the caves to the gates of Hell. Instantaneously, his expression softened. Though the smile disappeared from his face, he was surprisingly much more impressed with the boy than before. At least, he cared a little more. _Hope I don’t disappoint you._ There they were, again. Ironically, they resonated with him, pulled him out of his superiority complex for just enough time for him to feel human, to pity and reflect. I’m turning into my father, he thought, as his gaze upon the kid grew a little more gentle. So hard to please, never satisfied, always in the right, he may as well change his name to Howard right there and then. No, indeed, Tony saw something, in the kid... in his nervousness, his thirst to impress the respected authority, his wish to do good, that reminded him of his younger self.

What was the kid’s name again? Paul Parker? No, no, that wasn’t it. It was Peter, Peter Parker. Tony made a mental note to keep a look out for the kid’s application, and to keep an eye out for him in particular. “Sophia doesn’t mind,” he declared, as though his word were the word of God himself, as though he would declare ‘let there be light’ and light there would be. Brusetti, though a visible scowl consumed her rouged lips, said little to argue against him. Although, Stark could’ve sworn she made an inhuman growl where she stood. Yikes. Sooner, rather than later, he was gonna have to confront this whole goddaughter thing that he had going on here, or so Pepper reminded him, often. Only, he hadn’t actually thought that it was ever going to amount to anything when Andrei had sought him for the baptism. It was all just empty words and reputation, right? Wrong. Apparently so, anyway. The girl before him had, somehow — he wasn’t sure how, because it certainly never came from him — gathered the impression that this made for a relationship, that they were somehow linked. No, there was no link. No chain. This whole tie thing? Nada. It was a fairytale. Nil. Nada. Nothing. POOF. That’s all it added up to.

“But actually, I do have somewhere to be,” he tilted his wrist, as though he’d checked the time. Then, he quickly pulled up his tux sleeve, having realised he’d not bothered to throw on his favourite Rolex. Oops. That was a giveaway. “So, Sophia, I will have to catch you...” his head moved left to right, right to left, as if throwing around dates. He wasn’t. “I will get back to you on that. I don’t know when I’m free just yet but—“ that was a big, fat lie. “—soon”. The billionaire pointed at her, index finger elongated, as though he had hit some kind of epiphany. “Yes, soon,” Stark repeated, as though the topic were concluded, having not even gave her a chance to speak. “You three... buddies— sorry, lab partners—“ you could have three people as lab partners these days? Whatever floated their boat, he guessed, these weird Generation Z kids. “—have fun. But not too much fun. Like, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or anything I would do either. There’s a little grey area... in between...” he wavered his finger, as though to paint a Venn diagram. “That’s where you operate. All of you. Be good, kids. Let’s get cracking them eggs”. Cracking them— what?

**Peter Parker:**

For all the good his spider powers did him, this was not one of them. Peter watched with a face that screamed, helped me, as Tony wiped his palm on his suit. The gesture felt like a stab in his little heart. His inwardly cringing face, pulling together even tighter. Now he was calling him a fan? Normally, he wouldn't take that word as an insult, but the way Tony said it was like the word was filthy. He realized he'd probably come off more like a screaming fangirl about to pass out just from breathing the same air as him, which was partially true, instead of a cool, calm, and collected young man who deserved to work by his side. 

To make matters worse, his friend was not doing him any favors at winning brownie points. Peter's neck practically creaked as it stiffly rotated to look at Ned incredulously, his eyes screaming at him to not talk to THE TONY STARK like that. With Tony's attention on Ned, Peter vigorously shook his head and pulled his hand across his throat to signify him to stop with the sass. Any other time with anyone else, Peter would have chuckled at his friend's witty mouth, but in this moment? He wanted to die.

Oh my god did he just call him pal?! _Pal?!_ Peter wanted to sink through the floorboards right there. His best friend had just called his idol pal. It felt surreal in all the worst ways. He'd rather have one hundred dreams about going to school in his underwear than even one dream of this, let alone live it in the flesh. Peter's hand rose to cover his face, as the throbbing heat of his rising blood thumped under his skin. Hearing the slightest sound of feet repositioning on carpet, Peter snapped his hand back to his side, as Tony's half baked attention came back to him.

It became clear to Peter as he spoke that Mr. Stark was not listening to him. Part of that irked him, even if he knew Tony didn't owe him anything, it felt like he could at least pay attention since he had dragged him into this little debacle. _Sure_. Sure? That was the only response to what he had said? Peter felt his heart jump down his throat, slink into his stomach, and slowly being eaten by the acid there. He knew he shouldn’t have hoped for some kind of scientific philosophy discussion but it would have been nice to get a little more than a sure. In fact, all his answer did was showcase he wasn’t listening. 

Peter’s eyes flickered back to Sophia, feeling a momentary bit of sorrow for her plight. It was clear by the way they talked that they were related on some level and even clearer by her death glare that he was intruding on the one bit of his time she had managed to insert herself into. He continued to begin his departure when he saw a shift. 

Something he said must have gotten through that bull headed skull of Tony’s because he saw the release of his tense features. His words having chiseled off the hard exterior momentarily to reveal the sculpture of a man capable of affection and empathy on some level. His steps stopped, the heel of his back right foot hovering mere inches off the ground. _Sophia doesn’t mind._ Yea he would beg to differ on that take. He wasn’t sure what room Tony was in, but Sophia most certainly minded.

"Oh no really it's fine. I'm sure Sophia is too polite to say it, but she deserves to have one on one time with her...her..." great uncle was the first thought Peter had, but he didn't want to offend anybody. "-Uncle?" he posed the family linkage as a question. 

For a moment he feared he would be forced to stay even longer now. Funny how only five minutes ago he was daydreaming about this very moment and now he wanted to escape it like the nightmare it had turned into. He watched Tony feign to check the time. Who even owned a watch anymore? Apparently not Mr. Stark since he was staring at his suit sleeve. Realizing the mistake, Tony pulled back the fabric to actually look at the time. Peter theorized that a man like Tony, who had all the money and power in the world, didn't really _have_ to be anywhere, but he sure didn't want to be among other humans. 

Peter's finger pointed between the three of them, his lips parted into an "o" shape in question, as Tony spoke like they were the Three Musketeers, rearing to go on some crazy adventures together. Cracking them eggs? Peter's brow scrunched together and he had to hold back a groan fit for a teenager when their father made such odd statements. He had no idea what Tony would do, wouldn't do, or what the grey area was, but he hoped that Advanced Chemistry experiments fell into that middle spot?

**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

_Is he usually like that?_ the kid besides Peter mouthed to her, one that the young heiress hadn’t quite acquainted herself with yet. She nodded, silently, exchanging a knowing look with Ned, a glance that screamed her annoyance and desperate frustration. That’s Tony for you, she wanted to reply. Tony Stark in a nutshell. The man. The myth. And, the legend. In many ways, though quite agitated by his untimely intrusion, Alcott-Brusetti couldn’t help but pity Peter Parker. After all, it was never a nice sight to see someone’s wildest dreams come crashing down, hurtling towards the ground besides them; to see the glimmer or sweet sparkle of hope burn out slowly and painfully until it was little but a pool of cinders, a sign of what once was and what could have been. 

_Oh no, really, it’s fine. I’m sure Sophia is too polite to say it, but she deserves one on one time with her.. Her…_

“Godfather,” both Stark and Brusetti replied simultaneously, before casting each other a scathing glare. Rolling his eyes, Stark gave this one to the girl. “He’s my godfather,” she clarified, “not technically related — which is something, you know, that Tony likes to adhere to when he can’t be bothered with the responsibilities that come with it”. A low blow, but a deserved one nonetheless. The young billionaire shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, slender shoulders arched back, as though ready to embrace whatever retort that Tony fell back upon.

“Too polite to say?” The older business man gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah, sure can tell that you two have only just met. There’s nothing — absolutely nothing at all — that she won’t bite back on her tong—“

“—Oh, I’m sorry. My parents were too busy, being dead, to teach me manners. You should really give them a call, tell ‘em to get their priorities in check. Oh, wait. You can’t. Unless, all this time you’ve been avoiding me, you’ve been developing the technology to contact the dead. Though, I’m pretty sure they have one of those, and it’s called a Ouija board, and it’s bullshit. Sure that won’t stop you from putting your trade mark on it though”. That was it, the two of them were off now, and there was no holding back. No doubt this was achingly uncomfortable. Neither of them seemed to care, until one of them shuffled mildly, as though to itch away. Then, the two billionaires pointed at them in an accusatory manner, and once more chimed together. “Don’t move,” Stark had commanded. And Sophia, “you stay right there, Peter Parker”. 

“You’re actually going to go there? Right here? Right now?” Tony challenged her, pulling off his glasses and tucking them into the front pocket of his suit. His arms strapped before his chest, as he looked down upon her from his grand allure in more ways than one. “You’re actually going to pull out the orphan card. News flash, kid. You’re not the only one who lost your parents— it’s a tough world. A hard knock life. C’est la vie. Go home, watch ‘Annie’, have a little cry, and get over yourself”. A glance to the two other kids at her side was enough to tell Stark that his was in no way a good use of his time, it was a downwards spiral, and injured his reputation and credibility.

“Get over myself? Tony, you were twenty one when your parents died. First of all, you actually had twenty one years of life with him, years that I never got. Secondly — what the— you literally cannot lecture me on ‘getting over myself’ you live in simulations of the day of their death. You’ve literally, still, just been going on about it”. Reddened in the face, Alcott-Brusetti shook her head, flicking her tongue to the back of her teeth and pressing down, suppressing an animalistic growl. “You know what?” She heaved an exasperated sigh of defeat. “I was never, ever asking you to care for me — to protect me. All I want is for you to help me investigate that day, to find out the truth about what happened”. 

“And how do you propose that I do that, kid?” It was his turn to shake his head this time. “Sophia, your parents’ death was a tragic accident. And, I’m—“ his tongue wriggled around his mouth, as though he could taste something he didn’t quite like within the cave of his mouth. “I’m—“ he really struggled against the instinctive urge to suppress the “sorry” that splurged next. “I’m sorry that you have to get over it, but you do. It’s not healthy to stay stuck in the past. Trust me,” his hand extended to her shoulder, a hand which she squirmed away from as though a harbinger of the great plague. For the billionth time today, he restrained himself from the natural urge to eye roll, solely on the basis that he didn’t wish to further damage his eyes. That’s all. Of course. “We’ll talk about this another time. But, I really have places to go, people to see. If you want, I’ll throw you some cash for a good therapist. I know a few.”. Then, a quick explanation, “My father”.

“Stick your money up your ass, Tony,” Brusetti grumbled. “I don’t want your dirty blood-money. And, I don’t want your help either”. Her nose crinkled, delicate features soured beneath the weight of her disgust. “Consider this me officially freeing you from your binding contract of ‘Godfather’,” she embraced the air, palms towards the sky, as she took baby steps backwards, towards the exit of the auditorium.

**Peter Parker:**

Their quick unison-ed response only furthered to tighten the knot of tension that had formed between the four parties. However, Sophia and Tony were suddenly engaging in a verbal tug of war before Ned and Peter. Catching Ned’s eye, Peter inclined his head towards the door as he slowly took a step backward, the sole of his converse sneaker squeaking in protest to being held at such an awkward angle.

Tony was right, Peter had just met Sophia but he had seemingly stumbled upon a crash course into her life and inner relationships. Confrontation was not something that Peter Parker enjoyed that was more Spider-man's area of expertise. It was always easier to speak up when he was behind the mask, when he could web sling his way out of the situation, but as Peter Parker he was trapped and his only shield was his backpack and his only weapon his pen. Their verbal swords were clashing left and right, neither landing a blow without being countered, the tips of their tongues sharp and dripping with venomous words. 

With them both preoccupied in battle, Peter thought it was the perfect time to escape. The floorboard under his foot thought it would have a laugh instead and tattled with a creak. He winced as he was pinned by both of their fingers. A familiar shudder of fear and dread ran down his spine at the use of his name in such a strict manner. He felt like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Frozen in place, he looked at Ned his eyes screaming with discomfort. Forced to witness this little familial disagreement, Peter finally felt he understood how children with normal families operated.

Though he had no stake in their spat, he still felt like a kid with divorced parents, suddenly a prop in their show. How appropriate that the stage was only feet away from them. Squirming, Peter stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared down at his shoes which he shuffled about. A solemn look overcame him, pulling down at his features when being an orphan suddenly became a competition. He glanced up at them, his face still angled at the ground, as they continued.

“Guys come on...let’s not...hey now…” he tried to stop them, to interject, but his voice was too timid to be heard. They were having some sort of woes is me pissing contest and he was getting more uncomfortable by the second.

Peter had never thought being an orphan put him at a disadvantage in life, nor did he think it gave him any sort of advantage, but he did hate when people used it like a free pass to be a dick. Tragedy happened to everyone, rather they had parents or not, it didn’t excuse someone’s behavior. Now they were comparing the types of pain they had experienced; Sophia with her limited years with her parents and Tony with his young adult life with them. Peter’s jaw clenched. 

For whatever reason, Peter had little to no memories of his parents. He’d been eight when they died in a plane crash. He recalled flashes of those days, but remembered only their faces. He’d been to countless therapists and psychologist who tried to uncover the reason for the blockage in his hippocampus, but there seemed to be none. Eight years of his life, eight years of memories with them all gone from his reach. Peter didn’t dwell on it though, he didn’t feel sorry for himself, there was no point. Now he was stuck between two people who were basking in their tragedies and self loathing, wearing it like a badge of honor.

He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in his hunched shoulders, wishing he could curl up like a hedgehog. He willed himself to swallow the words that were crawling up his throat. Their voices seemed to only grow louder and louder, deafening his senses, until he felt like he was being strangled by them. He rolled his shoulders, flung up his head, and opened his eyes. 

“C-can you both just please shut up!” His arms spread between them, one reaching towards Sophia the other towards Tony as if taming two fighting lions. He blinked rapidly, having woken from a trance, his anxiety having temporarily taken over the wheel. Peter stared off into the distance in disbelief at his actions, he had just told Tony Stark to shut up. His lips parted, doey brown eyes wide, as he slowly turned to look at Tony. He lowered his hands and cleared his throat, hitting his chest once to try and distill the awkwardness. “S-sorry about that…” He felt his lungs shrink to half their size as he sipped at the air. 

He lifted the index of his right hand to rest under his nose like a mustache while his thumb held up his chin, the rest of his fingers curling into a fist. All of this an attempt to hide part of his paling face from those around him, hoping it would give him enough of a feeling of having his mask to decrease his fear. Seeing Sophia begin to leave, Peter followed in her footsteps, literally, walking backwards slowly. He gave Tony a small salute as he went. 

“G-great meeting you sir!” he called back, frantically motioning for Ned to follow them out the door.

**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

There’s no cliché more overused by Hollywood than that of a woman with a broken heart. She sits alone in her scruffs — joggers or pyjama bottoms, whatever it may be — with no other than her final two friends, Ben and Jerry, whilst no doubt she weeps into her glass of rosé wine. Of course, she’ll never be over her broken heart, and all she can do is try to cry until she can cry no more. Or, at least, until her knight in shining armour comes to save her, be it on horseback or with a boom box playing 1970s classics. Everyone’s seen a film like this at least once in their life. In fact, they’re so plenty that, it’s harder to avoid the tropes than the Black Death before showering were a thing. Obviously, in opposition to all that the media wishes to depict, there is no one stranger than the woman that blinks at her hardships. She always needs to “smile a little more”. After all, “it wouldn’t kill to show a little emotion”. Of course, Batgirl needs to be preppy. Goodness forbid she be like her mentor, whose perhaps more notorious for his scowl and monotone voice than his actual capability to vanquish evil.

Sophia didn’t really understand this, and not in a way that she was unaccustomed to society. She’d been around a great deal of many years, too many to not be unacquainted with a gentle teaspoon of sweet misogyny and a dash of patriarchy. In spite of the many advancements that have been made, in the search of equal rights, Dwight Eisenhower may have been on to a thing or two when he claimed that law’s cannot change the hearts and minds of the people. Benevolent sexism was still very much a thing — and it went both ways for both genders. Boys shouldn’t cry. Girls should be tender hearted and emotional. Benevolent sexism, that’s what they called it. Or, perhaps it was amicable sexism. She’d never really listened much in psych class... well, much beyond the bare minimum required to pass. That was a subject, however, for another day.

The point being, now, was that Sophia Alcott was an internaliser — and had been that was as long as her mind could recall, right back to her parents funeral and farther. She didn’t cry. She didn’t wince. She did, however, collapse, just inwardly, just in a way that missed everyone else. Funny, really, that we praise architecture for such a notion. If a building collapses, and does so inwardly, we praise the architect for the lack of catastrophic collateral damage. For a person, it was alien, weird, freakish, amongst a great deal of adjectives, none of which held a particularly kind demeanour.

One could understand, then, why she appeared so untouched, unscathed, by the drama that had just shrouded the entirety of her being. As she exited the auditorium, her eyes squeezing tightly shut as an exasperated exhalation wheezed through her fallen lips, she paused at the sound of footsteps, calculating that the dynamic duo — whom had so rudely, albeit accidentally, interrupted on her conversation — had decided to take their chances with their classmate rather than the rich and pessimistic misanthrope. Could she blame them? Not really. Did she want the company? Not particularly. If her mother were here, she’d be scolding her, telling her not to push away her friends. And, of course, Alcott Brusetti would respond in a heartbeat the same fact she’d quipped at Tony, ‘they’re not my friends’.

Only, when she came to think about it. Who were her friends? She’d been at the school long enough to begin to acquire some, and yet... all she had to show for her trials and tribulations was Jessica’s group of fake smiles, boob jobs and ‘oh em gee, can you believe what TMZ just tweeted?’ Which was all fine, if you were into that, it just wasn’t Sophia. Turning on the ball of her heel, arms strapped before her chest, the young heiress raised a puzzled eyebrow at the two young boys. “You know... you don’t need to follow me, or whatever. I’m fine,” her right hand wriggled free from the belt her arms had formed to waver them away, as though swatting a fly or brushing away one’s worries. “I’m used to it... really. Tony is... has always been like that, and it sucks, sure, but we’ve probably replayed that conversation as many times as he’s relived that pity party demonstration you both saw back on the stage”. Shrugging her jacket off, a little flustered by the whirlwind of events, she added, “forget about it. I— the things that I’ve just been talking about will upset a lot of important people. It’s dangerous. It will be dangerous. So, go back to chess club, or whatever... I got this”. She most certainly did not have it. What was she going to do? Infiltrate Oscorp on her own? A sixteen year old school girl with no means of protecting her self or manipulating?

**Peter Parker:**

Seeing Ned pick up pace with him, Peter spun to face the exit and briskly followed Sophia out. The windows lining either side of the hallway bathed them in grey sunshine, clouds having formed to shield the sun. As they passed the cafeteria, which was conveniently located just passed the auditorium, he heard the familiar sounds of lunch, kids yelling to each other, laughing, and occasionally a girl shrieking, no doubt in some pitiful attempt to flirt. 

They rounded the corner and Peter grimaced in Ned’s direction, jabbing his thumb at Sophia, silently asking what they should do about it. Peter didn't like to stick his nose in other people's business it was true, but it sounded like this was also a potential job for Spider-man and who was he to deny his alter ego a big break like investigating a possible homicide, a cold case. For Spider-man it was a way to test his skills and for Peter, who hated to see anyone upset, it would be a way to aid Sophia. Rather wearing his DIY costume or his school clothes, Peter Parker did not back down from a chance to help someone. 

If Peter suspected that his parents’ death was foul play he would go to the ends of the earth and back to prove it. The Parker’s passing, however, was a freak accident. An airplane that soared above the ocean when a sudden storm formed in the stratosphere and shook every screw and bolt in the flying aluminum can until it went toppling down into a watery grave. Mary and Richard Parker’s bodies were never recovered. They had sunk to the bottom of the sea, their flesh becoming snacks for scavengers, and their bones home to them like the decor in a morbid fish tank. Peter had read through the incident report when he was nine with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben, and then countless times after that on his own. Everything seemed to check out, there were no holes in the narrative.

He had no doubt Sophia had done the same, read that file until the words themselves seemed to lose meaning, and she had found something, a thread loose from the tale they had tried to weave and sell to her. Something for them to unravel, possibly together. After witnessing her spat with Tony, and albeit feeling partially responsible for its escalation, Peter wanted to give her the helping hand she sought. 

When she finally came to a stop from blazing her trail through the hallways, Peter gulped staring at her like a child being scolded. Sophia was intimidating, her blue eyes boring into him made him feel oddly exposed as if she could see every cell in his body and every gear in his head turning. Loosening a finger from the death grip he had on this backpack straps, he raised it, lips parting to speak, but Sophia barrelled ahead of him. 

“Uh-I-I didn’t mean to...that is I just wanted to apologize for getting involved at all back there,” Peter stammered, reaching up he ruffled the back of his hair uncomfortably. Thank god the blazer he was wearing was black so she couldn’t see how much he was sweating. Important people? Who could she be indicating in her search for answers? He had no doubt it was dangerous, any death that was covered up was that way for a reason. 

_Chess Club?_ He paused, head tilting to the side, nose crinkled. Did she just stereotype him? He was a nerd sure, but chess wasn’t really his scene, at least not in a competitive sense.

“Academic Decathlon actually,” he corrected, shaking his head with a scoff. Peter took a step forward before she could leave. “Listen, I know you say we aren’t friends and that’s fine and all, but let us help you.” He glanced at Ned, who he had not consulted with before volunteering his time and services. He ran the hand in his hair through once more before shoving it in his pocket. “N-not that you can’t handle it you seem fairly capable I just...if it is so dangerous you might want some backup. Ned and I are great detectives too.” Video games probably didn’t count as experience in this area but he was counting it anyway. 

Peter awkwardly shuffled his feet, staring at the floor as he prepared for her to lash out at him again.

**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

“Yea... no. This isn’t a game of Cluedo, Peter. _This is my life,”_ Sophia could no longer refrain herself from demonstrating her frustration, a peculiar artwork of emotion. Being best described as an “internaliser”, whom destructs within rather than around, Sophia’s emotions often displayed in a peculiar and unique type of way. The best possible way for this to be understood is in that of a dam; they keep the forceful powers locked within, yet (a true eyesore) it is also impossible to conceal that something is being withheld. A dam is nothing if not big, bulky, obtrusive. Such was the demonstration of Sophia Brusetti’s emotions. It was clear that something was being pushed back, and yet the world was deprived of the gushful forces of her emotions. Instead, these walls kept out everybody and everything. It was better that way. Remove the dam and you have a flood, a catastrophe, a threat to everything around. “You wanna do good. I get it. Forget chess club then. Join the green-thumbs, or Vegans4Life. This isn’t just something you can do to make yourself feel better—or something to put on a college application”.

The young girl exhaled a sigh of uncertainty. “Look. You’re probably two very nice people— but me... I’m not a nice person. I don’t give two shits about you, or you,” she addressed both of them in turn. “It’s a horrible thing to say, sure. But, is it the truth? Yeah. It is, because I’m many things... but a liar is not one of them”. Sophia struggled against the weight of her backpack, lifting the strap back to her shoulder as she shuffled her weight beneath the discomfort of the moment. “But someone cares,” was the calm after the storm. “You have somebody who needs you, no doubt. So, do everyone a favour, and stick to your mundane lives. Forget whatever hero complex it is that pestered you to get involved, because that is what gets people killed”. Brusetti shook her head. “Get up, kiss whoever loves you goodbye, go to school, graduate, get a 9-5 career and find your own happiness. If anything happens, and people ask around, you tell them you never spoke to me. Because this isn’t some Disney Hollywood-ised movie, or a game you play on your X-Box 360, or whatever the newest rendition is”. 

In truth, Sophia felt like an absolute bitch— the generous words that drizzled from her tongue resembled something far beyond even that of Jessica, or even ’ _Mean Girls_ ’ Regina George. And, yet, it partially stemmed deeper than anger, beyond frustration, but instead steered towards concern and a somewhat incapacity to be anything other than alone. Sweet Peter Parker stumbled upon his own words solely in her presence— what was he going to do with the type of men who did not hesitate to kill, to deprive a young child of her parents? Kill them with kindness? No, if there was one thing that Alcott-Brusetti could thank Tony Stark for... it was for teaching her that attachments and optimism were never a viable option.

**Peter Parker:**

Who had pissed in Sophia’s cheerios at birth? Her annoyance with his presence during her tiff with Tony was sort of fair, though he had tried to leave multiple times, but now she was really pushing it. Peter bit at his bottom lip, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. Today was really not his day. First he had been looked at with disdain by his idol, something that would be ingrained in his brain forever, then forced into some uncomfortable family debacle, and now he was being berated by some girl who nothing about him just for offering his help. 

The gull of this girl to stand there and try to psychologically analyze Peter and Ned, who really hadn’t wanted to get involved. Scratching at the top of his eyebrow with his thumb, Peter stared at her trying to sum up all his empathy for her situation to stop himself from telling her off. He didn’t know what her home life was like without her parents, he didn’t know if she had been blessed with someone like May or not. For her maybe her parents were the only real love she had experienced in life and as she sought it from someone who reminded her of them, of the life she used to have, she was cut to ribbons. So, he would refrain from dumping a truck load of salt into her open wounds. The hurt that danced behind the facade she had so meticulously constructed was one he had seen looking back at him in the mirror many times. 

They weren’t friends and maybe they never would be, but Peter did not want her to suffer that kind of pain alone, nor did he want her to get herself killed. Rather she let Peter Parker get involved or he forced his way in as Spiderman, he would not let an innocent get killed for seeking justice.

“Th-that’s not what this is.” Peter licked his lips, which had dried with the heat that rose with his frustration. “If I was trying to feel like some do gooder than I would do those things. Why would I instead try and help someone who ‘doesn’t give two shits’ about me? There’s people out there who would actually appreciate a helping hand. I’m trying to offer you the help that Mr. Stark just denied you. I believe you. Orphan to orphan I get it. I get the desperation and everything. I’m just trying to get someone the justice they deserve.” 

Stopping he searched her expression for any cracks, any give to his request. Their standoff was interrupted by the clang of the bell dismissing students from the lunchroom to the second half of their day. They were suddenly swarmed by a sea of students on all sides. Peter felt someone jam their shoulder into his own, sending him stumbling forward. 

“Move Penis Parker! He bothering you new girl?” Flash had the worst timing. Peter turned fixing Flash with a scowl. 

“Back off Flash,” Peter grumbled, barely audible over the noise of the student body. Flash’s eyes fluttered in surprise. Peter talking back was a rare occasion, normally he rolled his eyes and moved on. 

“Did you say something to me Penis?” He took an aggressive step in Peter’s direction, their faces only inches apart. All his vexation with the day was coming to fruition, Peter met Flash’s eyes, his nostrils flaring. 

“I said back off,” he repeated defiantly. Some students began to slow their steps, fixating on the conflict taking place in the middle of the hallway.

**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

  


_Orphan to orphan. I get it._

And, Sophia knew that he did. 

There are some people out there who are _gifted_. Alcott-Brusetti had never been — and supposed it unlikely to change — one of those people. She didn’t have unbreakable skin, like Harlem’s Hero “Luke Cage”, nor could she swing from building to building upon unsuspecting antagonists like Queen’s “Spider-Man”. She was just a small girl, an insignificant spec of sand upon the colossal beach of New York City; just another shoulder bumping into another, as she jostled through the sea of people, trying to make her way home. The sudden realisation of Peter’s genuine concern and etching for justice did not come from immense empathy, nor majestic telepathy, it came from the raw and broken clearness of his soft voice. Orphan to orphan, he understood.

Face softening, just a little, as though a crack of light within the boarded windows of a derelict building, Sophia shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, and simply watched him: how his porcelain forehead crumpled, like the paper of a frustrated writer, whom struggled to get their words across meaningfully; how he licked his lips nervously, having been heated by the events that unraveled around him; how he was so easily cast aside by everyone, shoulder and elbowed, tormented and neglected. 

And, in the midst of it all, Sophia wished with all of her heart that she could let him in. Perhaps, he was the one person in this school— _this_ city — who could possibly understand her, even just slightly. For a moment, she debated in folding, laying her cards upon the table and heart upon her sleeve. Yet, a moment is just that, the passing of time, fleeting and brief, and it strays as quick as it may come—

_He bothering you, new girl?_

Sophia glanced from Ned to Peter, before lingering on Parker for but a second longer, an apologetic glimmer to her eyes. “No, he was just leaving,” she coughed, shuffling her weight from one foot to another, stepping a little back in the process. “I stopped to ask Parker for directions. But, now that you’re here—“ She turned to Flash, her signature, false million dollar smile etched from ear to ear. “There’s really no need to bother with him”. Alcott took a few more passes back, before knocking into Thompson’s arm, playfully. “Say, help me find Jess? We got lost on the way out of the auditorium—“ a final look to the gathering distance between the two rivals was enough for her to exhale a sigh of relief. “—and I cant for the life of me find the cafeteria. I’m really just... so lucky you came. Flash, isn’t it?” She extended her hand. “Sophia, Sophia Brusetti”.

**Peter Parker:**

Just beyond Flash’s shoulder, Peter caught the glimpse of the chink in Sophia’s armor, but as soon as he had spotted it, it was gone. He’d been so close to getting through to her and Flash knocked it over like a reckless child knocking over another’s block tower. 

“Hey Penis, I”m talking to you,” Flash further intruded, puffing out his chest towards Peter. Why, when he was as dumb as an ape, did he insist on looking the part as well? Brown eyes flickered back to their assailant. His hands clenched into fists against his thighs. Ever since he had received his enhanced abilities Peter had felt the urge to fight instead of flight more often, this mixed with the lovely hormonal transition of teenagehood made for a messy recipe. 

His elbow bent and drew back only an inch, but before anything could escalate to that point, Ned stepped between them, snapping Peter out of it completely. Ned always acted as Peter’s protector and to balance this Peter tried to minimize the fights he got involved with. The small crowd of students that had stopped to watch what would happen, looked to Sophia as she defused the situation flawlessly. Many rolled their eyes, mad they wouldn’t get to see any real action. 

Peter looked at her, swallowing hard at her words. His gaze softened, however, when it locked onto her light eyes, spotting the apologetic glitter brought out by the fluorescent hallway lights. Flash, taken by the idea that a pretty girl was willingly giving him attention and playing his game, his chest deflated. In some lame final attempt to further prove his dominance, he flicked the pen from its perch behind Peter’s ear with a shit eating grin real satisfied with himself.

Grinding his teeth to douse the flames Flash had fanned once again, Peter bent down and picked the pen back off the ground. He watched Flash and Sophia interact, her flawless shift into popular girl who only cared about instagram followers and cherry flavored lip gloss was Oscar worthy. Feeling the pressure of Ned’s hand, Peter glanced back at him and nodded. He began to walk down the hall with his friend, looking back one last time to offer Sophia a small smile as they headed back to their separate worlds. 

Finally released from the constant bombardment of one thing after another, Peter felt the aftershocks of the day’s events. The undertow of anxiety pulling him into its depths and no matter how hard he tried to swim parallel to the shore, to level his thoughts, to put the brakes on his their racing, he found he only continued to suck water into his lungs. Subconsciously he had loosened his tie, trying to release some of the suffocating sensation. Reaching up he wiped the back of his hand across his now sweating forehead. 

“Hey, you shouldgo ahead to class. I just, I need a breath of fresh air,” Peter explained, beginning to walk towards the back doors at the end of the hallway at a brisk pace. Shoving the double doors open, he was met with a comforting rush of cool air as it whisked into the hallway behind him. Peter gulped in the fresh oxygen, air not tainted by Tony Stark’s judgemental looks, Sophia’s harsh words, or Flash’s mouth breathing.

He walked a couple feet away from the doors, undoing the rest of his tie as he went. A comfortable distance from the exit, he flopped down onto a small clearing of grass that hugged the side of the building with a loud sigh. His backpack still secured on his shoulders, provided the perfect pillow for his neck. Arms and legs spread out like he was preparing to make a snow angel, he stared up at the sky that perfectly reflected his mood, light grey clouds moved to and fro ensuring that the sun was covered at all times. Today felt a hell of a lot like that. 

So much had changed for him in such a short period due to his powers and before that didn’t matter to him. After all, he had very little social life besides a select few friends and academic decathlon. Now though, now he was going to try and add an internship to his plate and act like some sort of Nancy Drew to Sophia, a girl who didn’t care if he stopped breathing right this instant. Why did he hate himself?


	3. With A Little Help From My Friends

**Tony Stark :**

_I don’t want your dirty blood-money. And, I don’t want your help either._

_Consider this me official freeing you..._

_You know what’s about to happen, Tony... Say something..._

_Say something..._

_Who’s the homeless person on the couch?_

_Say something..._

_You know, they say sarcasm is metric for potential. If that’s true, you’ll be a great man some day…_

Tony barged shoulder to shoulder against those who managed to stumble into his path like a ferocious bull. As such animal would he huffed and puffed. Though, unlike the big bad wolf, he was with no ill intent. Indeed, he had no intent at all other that to gasp in, sharply, the sweetness of the outdoor air. Sometimes — on days like today — things became too much. It happens to everyone, to the best of us, and apparently even the best of the best. Alas, Tony reached the great outdoors. And, still holding the door shut behind him, with two white knuckles, he rested his head back and began to recount the years of notability in his life. 1970. 1984. 1987. 1991. 2008. No, that wasn’t right. He’d forgotten something. He’d forgotten— what had he forgotten? Running his hands through his neatly combed hair in controlled frustration, Stark gave an animalistic growl. Birthday. Starting MIT. Graduation. Parents’ anniversary. Being kidnapped by— what about meeting Pepper? How could he forget— 

He hadn’t the time to scold himself, finding that he was quite enticed by a familiar face trodding through his eye-line: the kid, one of the three musketeers. “Hey, you—“ he called out, tugging down on his suit, before pacing forth, finger extended to Peter. “Yeah, you, kid. Wait there”. If Sophia’s friend was here, then who was with Sophia? “Peter, isn’t it?” Stark added aloud, as he gained a closer proximity. “Where’s...” couldn’t say Alcott-Brusetti, that would suggest that he cared. He waggled his tongue around his mouth, head moving slightly left to right as he bounced words from his mind to the tip of his lips and back. “... the other two?” He settled upon, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Classes to go to?” Kettle and pot springs to mind, his mother would have said. Would have.

**Peter Parker:**

_Hey you!_

Peter launched into a sitting position, his heart racing in his chest. He'd been caught, great. Detention would look fantastic on his record, MIT would love it. Looking to his left he saw no one, but when his head swiveled to the right his eyes bulged. His hand connected with the ground and he moved to push himself up when he was ordered to do quite the opposite. For whatever reason, Peter couldn't defy the command, he truly felt like another one of Tony Stark's inventions. Couldn't he have some peace and quiet? What had he done to tempt the fates so? 

Playing dumb, Peter pointed at his chest and looked around as if there was someone else Tony could possibly be speaking to. Peter pushed himself onto his knees but stayed put. Tony Stark came to stop in front of him. The mid-afternoon sun cast a shadow of the two across the sidewalk, Tony towering over him as Peter kneeled, their silhouettes playing out the scene of one man kneeling before a great god begging for guidance, for direction. 

Tony had remember his name that was a pleasant surprise. Peter nodded and watched the tech genius grapple for the right words. It was clear he was trying to ask where Sophia was, he didn’t care about Duncan but he couldn’t bring himself to admit out loud he was concerned for her. If he didn’t know any better he would say that Tony was Sophia’s father, cause she sure had picked up his bricked up emotional wall. 

“You mean Sophia and Duncan?” He decided to play along with his little game of denial. Gathering his feet under him, Peter stood. He wiped the grass from the back of his pants before washing it from his hands. There was somewhere he needed to be, class. However, as much as Peter loved to learn he wasn’t in the mood, his head wasn’t in it today. “Sophia ran off into the sunset with Flash and Duncan is probably sitting in class trying to stay awake,” he replied matter of factly. He gave a beat of pause for his joke to settle in or not.

“Class? I-I have a free period this hour.” _Lie_ , but he couldn’t tell Tony, the owner of a company he wanted to work for, that he was skipping class because his molecules felt like they were going to implode at any moment. No, he had to act as cool and smooth as Tony Stark himself. “Was just doing some brain storming outside. Helps me uh...clear my head,” he finished with an awkward chuckle. Why was Tony even still here? Peter’s face quirked, head tilting to the side as he locked eyes with him. “Di-didn’t you say you had somewhere to be?” he asked, pointing off to the side as if that was where Tony’s destination was located.

**Tony Stark:**

_Sophia ran into the sunset with Flash and_ — Tony didn’t particularly hear the words that followed. In truth, it was partially because he didn’t even try to. What the other kid was doing was irrelevant. To some extent, he liked to fool himself, that what Sophia was doing was also irrelevant... It wasn’t. So much could be seen in how his teeth grit and shoulders squared even at the thought of the small child trouncing off with some random snotty-nosed— “What’s a... Flash’?” Stark sneered. “People actually name their kids that these days?” Was his instinctive response, and one he did not hesitate in airing— in spite of his many decades of age upon the poor kid. “What do you mean ‘she ran into the sunset’?” His finger met his thumb in a pinched motion, which Stark used to emphasise the discombobulation within the rasp of his voice. It wasn’t as though he was alien to the concept of relationships— or the cliche of such a notion— but Sophia Alcott Brusetti had one place to be and, it was not running off with some bleach-named imbecile, it was a classroom, exactly (he presumed) where Peter Parker ought to be as well.

_Class? I-i._ _.._ Stuttering: token signature for trying to bide time whilst one thought of an excuse. He was about to lie. .. _.have a free period this hour._ “Yeah... no. Cut the crap kid. You ought to be in class, and I ought to be nowhere, and yet here we both are”. His hands, which had hitherto fallen back to his side, gestured, palms up, to embrace the open air. “What are you clearing you head about? And, do us both a favour: don’t waste my time lying. My time is precious. I value my time, and I’m here with you. Understand?” 

And, why? Why was he wasting such valued seconds on some kid he’d met just moments before? Was it because— deep down, before— he’d seen a tiny fragment of the boy he used to be? Did he really care about the kid, or was he just anticipating that Parker had further reflection to air about the kid that he ought to care for?

**Peter Parker:**

Peter chuckled at Tony's belittlement of Flash's chosen nickname. His Aunt May had reacted in a similar manner the first time Flash's fist had connected with Peter's face and sent him home with a black eye. _That's like destining your child to be a jerk from birth!_ Then Peter explained as he did to Tony now, "Well, the alternative is..." Peter leaned forward on his toes as if sharing a secret with Tony, "Eugene, but he's pushed the nickname so hard I think people forgot that he even had another name. I didn't know until I did some digging for ammo on him and found it in the school records..." his voice trailed off. Wow, he had really just told Tony Stark that he had illegally hacked into the school system to find dirt on his arch nemesis. His heels fell back onto the ground before he became unnaturally still, at first staring at Tony, until he finally broke the tension with a quick high pitched laugh. "I'm kidding," his voice cracked, unable to hold the weight of any more lies. "Aaaanyway, he's this super popular kid in our class. Sophia walked off with him somewhere pretending to need directions. She more or less did it as a favor to me though, I don't think that there's actually anything going on there Mr. Stark no worries." 

One of the positives to being a nerdy nobody was that Peter heard everything. People didn't notice his presence or think that he would tell anyone that mattered, so they would spill secrets around him all the time. He knew who was dating who, cheating on who, who liked who, any juicy gossip that the people who were involved in those groups would kill for. In his travels, he had heard that Flash thought Sophia was cute, but after his interaction with her he doubted Flash was her type.

From what he had seen of Sophia Alcott Brusetti, she did not put up with people’s bullshit unless it was calculated. He began to realize perhaps she didn’t actually like the group of friends she had gotten upon her first week at Midtown, but they made her life easy. They were also so self absorbed they wouldn’t ask a lot of questions, they didn’t care about who Sophia really was. They wouldn’t pry into her life or try to pull her out of wherever she retreated inside herself. No, they were perfectly content with the fact that she looked pretty and played the role they wanted her to. Peter, however, now saw the way her piece in their puzzle was forced in with the others, the jagged ends not quite clicking into place allowing a glimpse into what lay beneath. 

He couldn’t blame her for this either, especially hearing about her greater mission. She needed people who wouldn’t care much if she disappeared. Perhaps they would start a rumor or two, pretend to mourn for her, yet deep down they couldn’t be bothered. How did someone mourn someone they never really knew? A question Peter had been striving to answer for years. 

Speaking of questions, he had answered the first of Tony Stark’s onslaught of them, however a far more complicated one remained. One that required him to talk about the inner workings of his mind, something he wasn’t really used to doing. Part of being friendly to people was putting them above yourself, at least to Peter. He would try and get Duncan to do most of the talking - a laughable pursuit - or he would fill the time with trivial matters. Aunt May would try and pick at Peter’s psyche, but even to her he closed off a bit. Now that he thought about it, he supposed he and Sophia were not so different, only in their approaches.

_Don’t waste my time lying. My time is precious. I value my time, and I’m here with you. Understand?_

Understand? Understand why Tony Stark was spending even a fraction of another minute on him? No, he didn’t understand, not one bit. He couldn’t lie though, Peter was an awful liar to begin with, but when instructed to tell the truth he was helpless. How did he delicately word the truth? He couldn’t very well just blurt out, You see Mr. Stark your reaction to me as a person and then dragging me into your personal drama really shook me up. Then, a bully tried to fight me in a hallways just after your goddaughter told me she didn’t give a shit about me. Oh, and I’m Spider-man so I’m trying to figure out how to have a hero, life balance too. Any tips there Iron Man?

Peter opened and closed his mouth several times, his eyes ping ponging to either side of Tony’s head. He was grappling for the string of words he so desperately needed. His hand began to fiddle with the loose hanging strap from his backpack, twirling it around his fingers. 

“Ju-just…” Peter let out a loud sigh, letting the strap swing back to his side. He turned his head to look down the sidewalk, away from Tony, the sun breaking through the clouds causing his eyes to glisten with the flow of his thoughts. “You ever, you ever feel like you want to do all these things, be all these things, and you only have the capacity for so many?” He held his hands out in front of him, his shoulders drooping as he stared at his palms as if the answers were mapped in the intricate lines he found there. He continued talking to his hands, “Then you have to decide what you’re willing to lose…who you’re willing to lose for them. What do you pick to do, to be? How do you decide who to let down? What to give up?” Peter finally looked back at Tony, their similar brown eyes meeting. In that moment, Peter looked how he felt, absolutely lost.

  
  
  


**Tony Stark:**

For the first time in his life, Tony listened, which was perhaps why the words drew such a response from him, or even a response at all. Again, just like before in the auditorium, the boy’s words— voice— struck something inside of him that he hadn’t even known was there. “Look, kid. People have this... this confined belief that who you are is malleable. I’m Tony Stark. Then— when the world needs it— I’m Iron Man,” Tony rolled his broad shoulders gruffly backwards, as though upon them he bore the weight of the world. “But that—“ she shook his head, as though the notion itself could see his disagreement. “That’s not true. When I put on that suit, nothing—“ he grasped his right hand together, pinching his index finger and thumb as though he held onto a slither of life’s revelations. “—nothing changes. I have all this power, sure, but morality?” Stark gave a bemused chuckle. “No, when I put on that suit, I’m still me: Tony Stark, owner of Stark Corporations... son of Howard and Maria Stark... playboy, billionaire philanthropist”. Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, the billionaire gazed through his rosy-tinted lenses into the dew of the cornflower skies, as though he could find the answers there... or, at least, fly away from having to find them. “My point is that, whatever you think is dividing you... it can’t. There isn’t two separate people inside of Peter Parker. A person ain’t a lump sum of money that you can just divide between the highest contenders, kid. It’s more complicated than that... different”.

Thick, heavy eyebrows knitted together beneath the immensity of Stark’s vast intrigue, curiosity, and frustration. Whatever it was going on in this kid’s life, Tony wanted to know. It was all in Peter’s eyes. Whilst his lips tugged and curved, like a puppet on cue— the happy and careless child— Tony knew that gleam (or rather lack of) better than the palms of his own hands. Within the doe eyes of Peter Parker was the absence of clarity— clarity which his young mind fumbled to seek, yet ceased to find. They were troubled eyes, the omniscient-black cameras which blinkered every so often but saw all, scribed all into the tapes of his brain. And though all seeing, the fact was that he was not all providing with the solutions to the woes he faced: whatever they may be. “Think about it like this, kid...” they say that geniuses, and experts, struggle to put forth their view in a manner simplistic enough to teach the lay person. Tony Stark was no expert in life. Indeed, though a self-proclaimed genius— with a MENSA accreditation, of course— he stumbled through life like the best of ‘em, perhaps over his own feet more than most. 

Obviously, not in the same klutzy way that Parker did. Of course. “You get a glass of water, right? And you divide it between six glasses. What have you got?” Before Peter even had the chance to reply, his elder had spoken over him. “Wrong. Don’t get technical. You got the same shitty water you had before, just in different places. Divide Peter Parker between whatever it is that is eating you up... what we talking about here? school? family? girls? chess club? Whatever your glasses are, no matter where you are, you’re the same shitty water. You’re still you, kid. No different”. A sharp exhalation eluded his lips, which parted slightly agape. “Sure, maybe across the way, some water is lost. There is a little less of you because you’ve been cast around so much. But, the thing as a whole ain’t changed”.

It was something that Tony was still coming to terms with, who he was... what it meant to be Iron Man. “You know when I was younger, my old man was an ass. I mean it, kid. I don’t disrespect my elders but...” he sucked his lip in a sneer of distaste. “When I was a kid, sometimes I wanted to wear a particular thing. Most kids do, you know? I liked this particular suit. Thought I looked strong, smarter... more sophisticated. This one day, it was hot— really hot— but I still wanted to wear that damn suit. So, he said, ‘ok, Tony. You wear your suit’. And you know what that son of a bitch did? He refused to let me take any of the three piece off. 90 degrees Fahrenheit and I’m there sweating my ass of in a three piece Dior”. A bitter laugh embraced the air. “I cried— I used to do that a lot when I was a kid, powerless and needy. I told him that it was too hot. I felt sick. And, you know what he said?” Tony paused, his eyes clouded as though the BARF had taken his soul away from Parker and back to that very moment. Howard’s voice rang clear as day into the world around them, more alive and vivid that the whispering of the wind and chirping of the sweet little birds nesting. “He said: ‘Tony’— not son, he never called me son—“ Stark raised his finger, his hand having escaped his pockets, and wriggled it scoldingly, in mimic of his father to his younger self, “he said— ‘there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing’. I know... I get what you’re thinking. You look at me all blankly like... I just opened up to this asshole and he’s using me for a therapy session— no, you’re missing my point”. Wow, he was actually about to accredit Howard for a valuable lesson. There was a first for everything after all. “What I’m saying is... nothing is too much... no weather... no situation. What is too much— or rather wrong— is your response... your own actions”.

He stopped, allowing his words to take weight in Peter’s mind. “There’s no such thing as too many things going on— needing to eliminate something. What you need to do is fix you,” his finger fell to Parker’s upper right shoulder, jabbing him ever so slightly. “You need to have better preparation. You have these responsibilities. You don’t become someone else to eliminate them. You don’t get rid of some of them. No. You learn how to do it all— and much more. Because, this world is a brutal place, kid. You gotta learn how to survive. That’s not about becoming something else. That’s not an option. It’s also not about giving up. It’s about the hurt, the pain, the struggle... you gotta have it, kid. Become friends with it. Otherwise, that big bad world is gonna swallow you up as soon as you step foot outside of them school gates and into reality”.

  
  
  


**Peter Parker:**

Unlike earlier in the day, Peter could see that Tony had actually listened, he hadn’t dismissed him for some pathetic peasant child. No, for a moment they felt like equals, he didn’t see Tony as some idol in this moment, he didn’t feel like he was so much lesser, or that he was undeserving of his time. For, in this moment, they felt like two regular people, albeit tortured souls, having a symposium about their existence. 

  


_There isn’t two separate people inside of Peter Parker._

But wasn’t there? There was a high school student, nerd extraordinaire, academic decathlon team member, son of Mary and Richard Parker, orphan, Peter Parker. At the same time, in the same container of flesh, there was Spider-man; champion of the people, strong, skilled, and mysterious. They coexisted inside him. Peter had been seeing them as two separate entities this entire time. Spider-Man was cool. Peter Parker was lame. It was that easy. One was a hero. One was a normal kid. They couldn’t be the same person, he had to separate them. That’s what he told himself, but now, the man who had publicly announced that he was a hero as well as Tony Stark was telling him otherwise. If anyone would understand the juggling act of hero and civilian life it would be him. 

Brown eyes scanned the blades of grass that lay at their feet as if all the words Tony had said were spelled out there and he was rereading them over and over again. Why had he been so insistent that the two remain separate? He supposed it was partially his fear of one consuming the other, his way of keeping a yin and yang structure within himself. Of protecting the things that Peter held dear, of keeping those weaknesses at bay. Spider-Man couldn’t worry about term papers or if Aunt May would notice he was gone, he needed to keep his head in the game. It was why he went so far as to remove his mask even if he was studying on the job. He feared if those lines blurred too much he would lose one of the two boys housed inside him. 

Crossing an arm over his chest, Peter propped up his elbow and pressed his thumb to this lips, in a rather Tony Stark matter. His bottom lip curled into his mouth allowing his teeth to latch onto it and lightly nibble with each troubling thought and Tony wasn’t done challenging his mind yet either. A story problem? Perfect, Peter was great at those, there was logic here, one right answer. It was part of why he loved applied sciences so much, there was one correct answer to every problem. English, perceiving history, gym, anything with people there were multiple paths and options and perspectives. Why? Because people are complicated creatures and all these subjects involved human emotion which was the most complex thing he had ever encountered. 

“Well on the sur-” he was instantly cut off. There was no disputing Tony’s answer. A liquid was still a liquid no matter the container, unless a molecular structural change was applied turning it into steam or ice. But wasn’t being bitten by a radioactive spider and his DNA morphing a molecular structural change? He wasn’t just Peter Parker in another container, he’d been altered complete the very spiral inside him containing the lines of code that programmed him into the person he was changed forever. Weren’t they? Yet, Tony Stark had gone through a similar change, he’d gained, for a time, an electric heart, changing the line of code inside him. God, the whole thing made his brain throb against his skull. Peter Parker wasn’t a philosopher, he needed facts, figures, _proof_. 

Peter rolled his eyes, “Why does everyone think I’m in chess club?” he said exasperated, letting out a long sigh. The things Tony listed were only the tip of the iceberg of problems facing him everyday and lately he’d felt like the Titanic. Those issues alone were enough to cause him to tear open as he scraped against them. Now taking on water, he added Spider-Man to the mix and showed the design flaw within himself. He was not made for all of this, he didn’t have the proper amount of lifeboats, nor architectural integrity to withstand the water pouring inside him gallon after gallon...day after day. 

Something inside him whispered to tell Tony, tell him the full candid truth, that he was Spider-Man. Peter considered it, looking at Tony, his eyes peering into Tony’s searching for some sign of how he would take the news. His tongue poked out from the side of his mouth, eyes scrunching, waiting to see if the words would come to him, but they didn’t, and it didn’t matter because Tony had launched into a story from his childhood. One that was wildly fitting for this moment. Tony mistook his vacant expression as him being dumbstruck or offended, but he was more fascinated with the way the lesson had hit the nail on the head. 

_Preparation._

Nothing had prepared Peter for what had happened that was true, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t adapt. He needed to stop lingering on the unpredictability of the situation and roll with it. Peter began to nod, raising his pointer finger as a smile slowly stretched across his lips. Yes, that was it, he needed to prepare better. Starting with Sophia. 

“Yes, yes…Mr. Stark. Where does Sophia live?” Realizing the odd question, his face turned bright red. “I-we-it’s not like that - I just want to thank her for earlier with some help on some chemistry homework.” Boy was that a lie. One he didn’t need Tony to buy, just to let slide. He didn’t even think about how rude of a response that probably was after Tony had given him a real heart to heart. After all, he was still a typical teenager getting lectured by an authority figure. If anything though, he hoped Tony would understand that he was simply excited to execute the advice that he had given him as soon as possible. 

  


**Tony Stark:**

**“635 West 42nd Street — the 45th floor of the Atelier.** Hell’s Kitchen, to be precise. I told her not to. Warned her about the inconvenience; all them masked vigilantes “taking back the night”. Daredevil, ha. But, does anyone listen to Tony?” The disgruntlement seemed to be more directed to cued recall of his exasperation with Sophia, rather than with Peter or their current divulgent conversion. The hand that had found its way instinctively to his chin now scratched dumbfoundedly at the bristles that found a home there. “Again, kid, that was a rhetorical question— what are they even teaching you these days?— but no, nobody listens to Tony, because if people **_did_ ** listen to Tony we would’ve found world peace a long, long time ago.”

His hummer stretched outside the school, at the bottom of the grassy plains that stretched before it— scarce green strands within the concrete jungle that engaged them at every side. Still, Tony was not ready to go just yet. “I tell you that, kid, because I want to, and certainly not because I believe you. Understand? You’re an awful liar. You really need to work on that”. Eyebrows furrowed, he couldn’t resist from his egoistic boast of, “I graduated university before an age you probably knew your abc’s— which could or could not have been last year, or even yesterday, but that’s not the point. The point is that: **I’m not stupid.** I know a liar when I see one, specifically when they’re as bad as you”. His chin tilted, as though admittedly throwing the notion across his head that it didn’t, indeed, take a genius to see through Peter Parker. 

“You see— to some extent— I don’t **_care_ ** what your **_business_ ** is with Sophia. Because right now, we are establishing a line. You know what a line is. Hm? They at least teach you that?” Patronisingly, Stark used his leather, Italian loafers to scuff the luscious emerald beneath his feet with strands of dry dirt. The earth uprooted, portraying the exact, or rather incarnation of the, “line” that Stark was referencing. “See, where you are now, that’s the good side of the line. Peter Parker: friend— the boy next door, master chess player and… I don’t really care. Yadda yadda. You get the point. Or, most people would by now. The point is kid, I know that you’re gonna stay right there, where you are. You’re not gonna cross that line”. 

The hummer beeped, impatiently. Perhaps, it was the disgruntlement of an impatient driver, whom had no idea who they were taxiing across the city. Or, maybe, it was a gentle reminder that Mr. Stark was about to be late, again, if he did not hurry up with his… supposed speech. Rolling his eyes skyward, the only response the inhabitants of the vehicle got was a waiver of his hand, as though replying to people courteously, or societal expectations, such as being on time, were so ‘yesterday’. They could wait, for a moment. 

“What is that line, Mr. Stark? I hear you say,” Parker had most certainly not said them words. Did he care? Not particularly. This was a one man show. He didn’t have time for a two man dialogue— or rather man-kid dialogue. “You’ll know. There could, by some miracle, one day… maybe... be a time when you reach this line with Sophia”. He didn’t particularly think it likely. They two kids were polar opposites— made from substances so alien to each other they could not possibly evoke a spark. No, opposites did not attract, that was bullshit physics they taught imbeciles and naive children to simplify the complexity of intricate science. The fact was plain. Water extinguished fire. Fire devoured (evaporated) water. The attraction, if there, was forever destined to be short lived, quick, and over before it could even really begin. 

“And when this day happens. You will not… do whatever it is that you do. You will go ‘Aha! So, this was what Mr. Stark was talking about’ and yadda yadda”. Clasping his hands together, Tony cast what could be mistaken as an anxious glance— through the crimson hue of his lenses— at the car below, as it revved its engine. “In spite of everything, Parker,” was that right? That name was right, weren’t it? “You’re a good kid. I like you. You have a thirst to learn, to do good. I was once like that”. He was admitting that? Wow. He supposed he was.

Another beep. “Look, kid. I actually gotta go”. Tony remover his sunglasses, tucking them in the front pocket of his tux, before casting Peter Parker a final look over. He was a good kid, he decided again. A good kid with potential. “We’ll meet again. If you’re lucky”. He quickly brushed away any nicety with sour jests, always, it was innate to him, to who he was. “Take care, kid. And, tell Sophia, when she’s ready to unblock me,” he hadn’t bothered to message her to check she had, but was certain the girl had succumbed to the ritual of it, “I’ll be waiting to speak about whatever it is she was… **_trying_ ** to get across. That said, Stark gave a firm and solemn nod, before, alas, to the driver’s sweet relief, began his way to his horse and carriage. 

  


**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

“—And, so, I totally said: listen, Leeds, I don’t care if that was an original 1981 model of the Milenium Falconer, or whatever it is, you and that piece of shit were in my way”. 

“Mhm”. 

_Asshole._

Flash shoveled his weight from one foot on to the next, turning to face her, as they reached the end of the corridor, after what felt like — for Sophia alone— an entire lifetime away from the scene of the auditorium. Man, she wished she could’ve hopped right into that **‘1981 Milenium Falcon’** and hyperjumped the-fuck-away from this soul-eating conversation. Who needed the power of dark side, when there was this void of a person named Flash Thompson to suck the lives out of your enemies? That was mean, excessive, even, but… nonetheless, it wasn’t as mean as _him_ , so… _technically_ , it was justified. 

The fact was, as Sophia noted, Flash had some kind of irksome, but nonetheless not bizarre, obsession with Peter Parker, and his best friend: Ned Leeds. He recalled peculiar series of events, from months— maybe even years ago— as though they happened just a few hours prior. The fact that he could recite the exact date of the model— whether he feigned indifference to the name of the renowned Star Wars spaceship— told Alcott Brusetti all that she needed to know about the Class A: Asshole that she walked the corridors with.

“All okay, new girl?”

Sophia resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and summoned a burden-free giggle than nearly made her vomit on her own tongue. “Parker bores me. Let’s talk about something else”. It wasn’t a lie. She was bored shitless. Only, she wasn’t so sure it was the topic of conversation which droned any, and all, interest away from her. “I mean, he’s so irrelevant, why even bother yourself with wasting another breath?”

There was a saying that her mother used to say, from what Sophia could remember, when she was young: about a kettle and a pot. It lingered in her subconscious as she uttered them words, lectured Flash on his copious obsession. If Peter Parker was so irrelevant, then why was she still thinking about him herself? Maybe, she ought to take a leaf out of her own book. Wait, that was the saying, right?

“Yeah, you’re right,” Thompson nodded, after a moment of contemplation. “There are better things to entertain ourselves— like, how my parents are going away this weekend—“ if this was going where she thought it was… Sophia was not going to be responsible for— “— so I was thinking about throwing a party, having a few people around. No one irrelevant, of course”.

“Of course,” she agreed. The words left her lips, but her mind was far from present. It raced, like her heart, over the past few days, days which had devoured what she expected of her world and shat it right before her eyes. _You don’t have to do this alone._ Them words encapsulated her, like a phantom, into a ghostly world of their own. Sophia could almost hear him, as though he were right beside her, still pleading with her to see sense.

Only, Sophia could not be anything other than alone. She was incapable; she didn’t know how. She’d spent so long, so many days, picking up her own damn cross and carrying it as far as she could. Sure, sometimes things got hard, and she fell down, but she got back up, every time, on her own, because that's how the world works. There was no other way than alone. Couldn’t he see that?

“So, naturally, being everyone’s newest topic of interest, I thought I’d invite you. I mean, Jessica and Wendy will be going anyway. So will Betty, if you two have met…”

“We have, yeah,” Brusetti did not recall a fond encounter.

“What do you say then?”

I say, I have too much shit going on than to even contemplate going to your crappy high school, elitist-bullshit, she vented mentally. Outwardly, she sweetly smiled, rouged lips curving upwards, seductively. “So sweet of you to think of me, Flash. I’d love to. Friday, did you say?”

“I didn’t say a day, but I was thinking more Saturday— it gives people time to get ready, y’know?”

“Totally”. She didn’t. She didn’t even care. “Give me a place, and a time, and I’ll be there. If I can”. Sophia slinked her other arm through the free strap of her backpack. Having spent so long, idle in conversation, the weight of her schoolwork had begun to weigh her shoulder down hard. “Say, its Trig next, right?” A good way to lie is to build up believable circumstances. If Sophia was going to pretend to have forgotten her book, or brought the wrong one, then it needed to be compressible that she was in a bit of a daze, which wasn’t hard to fake, truth be told. “Dammit, I left my notebook back in my locker. You know what… you go on ahead… save me a seat, if you can,” displaying hopes, people were more likely to believe you were infested in a future if you showed plans. “I just need to go back and grab it. I’ll be quick. Promise”. 

Truth be told, Sophia had no plans at all on attending Trigonometry, or even Music and Literature. She’d had enough of today, already, and had more important things awaiting her attention in the peace of her own apartment. 

“Sure thing. See you inside?”.

“Mm. I’ll see you around”.

  
  


**Peter Parker:**

_You’re an awful liar._

Peter couldn’t help but scoff at how hilarious he found that. It wasn’t that Tony was wrong, technically he was right, Peter had never gotten away with lying as a child nor as an adult really. Yet, he held one of the biggest secrets one could have, besides perhaps having murdered someone, he had an alternate identity. He’d been lying about that for a couple months now and no one was any wiser to it. The reason? Maybe it was because he was invisible and no one cared if Peter Parker was sneaking out every night, came into school with bags under his eyes, and conducted side experiments in class outside the teacher’s line of sight. If no one cared, no one asked, and if no one asked he didn’t have to lie. 

Right now, he was glad that Tony had decided that whatever was bothering Peter was too trivial to pry into and he hoped it stayed that way. There was no telling what stance Tony took on someone his age fighting crime and putting himself in harm's way every day. He could tell Aunt May, he could take it all away from him, and Peter didn’t know what he would do without Spiderman, without that other half of himself. Spiderman had, in a short period, become part of who he was and his identity, even if he tried to keep that part of himself separate. If it was ripped away from him, he wasn’t sure he would be able to return to a normal life. 

He quickly pushed that dilemma away, scheduled it for another day. Now he was completely tuned into Tony’s verbal frequency as he began to throw out an accusation about Peter’s true intention. Peter’s eyebrow quirked, watching the line become etched in the grass below. Was he...did he think...that he Peter Parker was trying to make a move on Sophia and that was what he was lying about? 

“Mr. Stark, I’m not going to her apartment to hold up a boombox and play In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel like John Cusack in Say Anything. I’m not trying to go to Sophia’s apartment to woo her, I promise.” He met Tony’s crimson filtered gaze with a level look. This wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the truth of his purpose in going to see her, but it at least on some level was the truth. Tony seemed to barely process or care about Peter’s assurance as he rambled on about how Peter was a good kid and...and comparing him to a young Tony Stark. Peter a swell of pride at the statement.

Being around Tony Stark was like riding an endless roller coaster of ups and downs, twists and turns. One minute he was sort of peppering in his own form of a compliment and the next he was insulting you. Backhanded compliments seemed to be his bread and butter. All together, as he watched Tony walked towards his car, Peter was left with the aftershock of elongated whiplash. 

  


“Uh...Thank you?” Peter said hesitantly waving after Tony’s retreating figure. 

  


Peter remained transfixed on the vehicle as it disappeared into the horizon and off into the busy streets of the city as if Tony Stark had been nothing but an apparition. _Welp...that’s uh..that…_ He ruffled the back of his hair and let out a long sigh. There was no time to linger on this interaction, however, only to put what had been said into action. He’d already skipped last hour and the next was gym, which he tended to skip anyway, so why not just head out a little early? He had stayed late plenty to make up for it, right? 

Glancing at the two doors that led into the school and back to the open street behind him, he slowly began to walk away. Without further deliberation, he took off down the road toward the many stores nearby. He’d go see Sophia, but not empty handed. 

Two hours later, after three stops and one taxi ride, he was standing out Sophia Alcott Brusetti’s apartment door. He fumbled with all the supplies, trying to balance them in his hands and under his arms. Rolled up poster board stuck out of his backpack, poking just above his head, while he tried to keep the large - presenter sized - note board under his left armpit, while a bulletin board was pinched under the other, in his left hand he carried a bag of snacks, pens, markers, highlighters, and three different colored yarns of string, complete with a box of thumbtacks. Everything they would need for one Nancy Drewesque investigation. 

Peter looked down at himself, the human pack mule, blessed with the strength of a spider, he groaned, noticing that he had no free hands to knock on the door with. He caught a glimpse of his appearance in her doorknob and cursed. His hair was disheveled and stuck to sheet of sweat that outlined his forehead, and there was no denying that he had a conspiracy theorist crazy look in his eye. Sophia was going to think he was bat shit crazy. 

“Oh well Peter, here goes nothing,” he mumbled to himself, before placing three rhythmic kicks on her door. “Act more casual...seem cool...what do cool people do?” He began to panic. “Cool people don’t care, yea so…” he turned his back to the door. “I’ll do that movie thing where I look interested in the drywall across the hall and when she opens the door slowly turn to face her...yea yea..no Parker that’s so dumb.” He swung around at the same moment the door opened, his boards hurtling towards Sophia at a careless pace. 


	4. Chasing Cars (Part One)

**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

Blink, and you would’ve missed it. Unfortunately for Sophia, this is exactly what she did. The series of events had befolded like a whirlwind, battering the pages of her life, so that they blew past at an unprecedented speed. Each move was incalculable. Each consequence incomprehensible. She had attended the door at an unearthly speed, hearing the unearthly commotion at the other side. And, seeing that it was only Parker, on the security cameras, Alcott-Brusetti blew hot air between her lips; it appeared Peter was just the gift that keeps on giving, whether or not people wanted him to or not. 

Silently, she listened. _ “Act more casual...seem cool...what do cool people do?” _ Suppressing a chuckle, the young woman bit her lip, bemusedly, at the other side, still maintaining her cover.  _ “Cool people don’t care, yea so… I’ll do that movie thing where I look interested in the drywall across the hall and when she opens the door slowly, turn to face her…” _ subconsciously, for the first time in what could have been an eternity, Sophia’s lips twitched upwards at the corners, each one tugging up to meet her eyes in a sparky embrace. A glimmer was held within the cerulean hues that resembled the glint of sunlight upon the crashing tide of sweet Mediterranean waves, lit with a mere spark of mischievous amusement. 

Her heart leaped when he kicked thrice upon the door, almost with inhuman strength, one she most certainly would not have attributed to  _ him _ , anyway. Or, perhaps, it simply seemed so because she was so close to the door already. She waited, just a moment, as to not give away that she had been stood there for any longer than an instant moment. Then, running trembling fingers through her hair, she withdrew her light-hearted smile, and answered the door with. “What do you want, Parker?” Her auburn cloaked head tilted right-ward, as though to steal a better view to look down at him from upon. 

Pretending to steal a look over him, as though something of relevance, or at least more relevance than himself, awaited her behind. “Who even let you in? I mean, what do we even pay security for here?” She upheld the entitled air which had hugged her for so long now, like a thick sweater against the frosty torments of life, that it had almost became apart of her flesh. 

The truth? Sophia wasn’t sure what exactly it was that she felt when she had laid eyes on Peter— endearment? flattery? support?— but it certainly was not anything which was present upon the canvas of her delicate features— disgust, self-importance, impatience. Perhaps it was Karma, then, or perhaps it was not, as he turned to face her, like a hurtling lorry carelessly taking the turn of a road, his endless stack of boards when flying into her chest, sending her back off her feet with an unforeseen and herewith unprecedented force. She wasn’t looking enough to give herself the time to react, clinging to her facade of indifference. 

Oomf. 

Truth be told, she wasn’t exactly where was injured most— her bottom, her head, or her plain old dignity, of which she was not sure she had any left. All the same, she rubbed her head sorely, and blinked a few times, as though to fight to keep consciousness. This was not pretend. “Jesus, Parker,” she groaned, hand itching behind her to find a way to lift herself up, to no avail. It only met air. “Do you find a way to slot… some kind of ninja classes in between chess club or academic die-athalon, whatever it’s… called”. she waved her hand, speech a little slurred, impaired, by the series of events. “Ouch,” she grumbled once more, to herself.

“If you’re trying to beat an apology out of me,” she composed herself, alas, “it’s never going to happen. I can hold a grudge… and my own...” Two eyebrows raised at where he stood, as her mind raced on what on Earth he was doing here, more so with enough packages to relocate a small family. 

  
  


**Peter Parker:**

Sophia, always one to greet with more bark than bite. A million witty responses pricked the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t get to use any of them. He stopped, facing her and witnessed her decent to the ground which seemed to unravel in slow motion. Whatever cool guy ambiance he had been going for, he had completely missed the target. Instead, he had sent Sophia hurtling to the ground and in the process probably injured her on some level. Some apology this was. 

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” Without thinking twice about it, he dropped everything he was holding, sending a shower of school supplies falling to the ground, and knelt down beside her. “Are you hurt?” his voice quaked, almost squeaked as his throat felt thick with guilt.  _ You’ve really done it now Parker haven’t you?  _ He reached out and placed a supportive palm between her shoulder blades as she tried to lift herself up. His eyes darted around her face and noticed the odd way she was blinking and the slur in her words. 

_ When he was little, Peter remembered going ice skating downtown at the Rockefeller Center with his Aunt and Uncle. He had to have been around ten years old. Stubborn as ever, he had insisted that he could do it without holding their hands or onto one of those walkers all the other kids were using. Of course, he was wrong.  _

_ Like a newborn fawn, his legs wiggled beneath him as he tried to push them out and lift them back in to repeat the process and propel himself forward. He stretched his arms out on either side of him to try and help him balance, his forehead wrinkled as he stared down at the ice like an enemy he would conquer. After a bit, he began to feel confident. Slowly at first then, fueled by hubris, he began to speed up. He grinned at May and Ben as he skated by, flashing a quick thumbs up to ensure them he was okay.  _

_ That was, until he had to stop. He began to push his skates outwards to slow his mounting trajectory, the next thing he remembered was waking up with the coldness of the ice rink on his back. He’d blinked, much as Sophia was now, slowly trying to lift his head as if he had woken from the most vivid of dreams. May and Ben stood over him, calling his name, calling him back to consciousness.  _

_ They’d helped him up and, more or less, carried him off the rink. May had sat him down and assessed his injury, his pupils, made him count fingers, lift his arms, and a plethora of other tests. His speech had been slurred, ever so slightly, and his pupils she claimed were the size of olives. He was concussed and as he looked at Sophia, he had a feeling she was too.  _

“Did I concuss you? Oh god…” he groaned. A stray marker rolled between them as they still sat in the odd inbetween of the hallway and her apartment. Another occupant walked by, sending them a funny look before continuing on their way. No offer of help to be found. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked frantically, holding two fingers in front of Sophia. “Let me look at your pupils,” he said, his words falling over one another. He reached up, his fingers moving to open her eyes so he could get a better look. 

  
  


**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

She closed her eyes. Then, she opened them. Closed, then opened. 

There was an aura around life— hung in the air like a phantom-filled fog— which made the familiarity of her home, her apartment, quite surreal. One moment she had been standing, or at least she presumed so, and the next, she was on her ass, with no recollection of what had unfolded in between. For example, was… was that Peter? Why was he here? How did he get in? It was in her head, somewhere, she was certain. As a matter of a fact, she had only just known, but now her mind, her memories, slipped through her fingers like thousands of grains of sand. And, the tighter she grasped, the more she lost. 

It hurt to think. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” 

_ Parker? _

Oh yeah, Parker was here. 

“Let me look at your pupils”. His voice was almost as trembling as her own. If a person were to walk past— as, in fact, they did, they would find it quite difficult to distinguish between who was the victim and who the assailant. Perchance, that may explain the peculiar glimpse that was cast their way, before they trudged forth, once more, about their business. There was no offer of help. But, why would they? For all they knew, Peter and Sophia were having some weird kind of… well, they clearly didn’t know what, but they were also okay with that. People were into some weird shit and activities in NYC, after all. 

She watched him reach up. Although, from her perception, she could not quite tell what he was doing. As his fingers moving to open her eyes, it rather appeared as though they were moving behind his head, or side-wards, or…no? Wait? Yea… Sophia had an overwhelming urge to shake her head and pull herself out of… this, whatever it was. “Am I dreaming?” She asked, at last, a rather distinct difference from her last approach. A yawn eluded her lips, as she allowed her cheek to fall into his palm, and his fingers to check her pupils, though had no direct comprehension that this was in fact what he was doing. 

“I didn’t think that I liked you that much, Parker,” the back of her right hand fluttered to her forehead, as though to swipe away the clouds that accumulated and masked all sense, or to check whether she had some sort of ferocious fever. In hindsense, or perchance just in a concusses daze, it made sense that the only way Peter Parker would be at her apartment would be if he were, after all, a figment of her imagination. How else would he know where she lived? Why else would security let him in? What other reason would he come? 

Psychology shows, so she had read once, that you are seventy-percent more likely to dream about the things you are trying to suppress. Well, it was no shocker her mind was trying to shut out the bright-eyed, bright-hearted kid, that she’d pushed away only hours earlier. He spoke to her— said things, which seeped through the walls of her guard, and resonated with her. Orphan to orphan. “If this is a— a dream, I really hope it's not one of those… y’know… romantic ones. I mean, that would be—” Weird? Thought-provoking? Uncomfortable? Diverting? Gratifying? “Out of all the people in The World, why you?” Stupid brain. “Why not Jason Momoa?”

If it were such a dream, such words were a sure way to devoid any romantic chemistry that clung around them. Only, well, it didn’t matter, really, what she said, did it? Her own brain controlled it all. Her own brain decided what came next. What came next— what did come next? Now, that she thought about it, should she really be so calm that a man— okay, maybe not exaggerate— a boy, whom she scarcely knew, had broken into her apartment. Sure, he could kiss her, but he could also kill her. Anything could happen in a dream. What did she do? What was there to do? 

She eyed her surroundings as well as she could, for something, anything, that she could use for a make-shift weapon, should she need one. Sophia wouldn’t be surprised if this dream quickly turned into a nightmare— they plagued her nightly anyway. Each one the same, even when they were different: They came for her, just like they had just under a decade ago. They came to finish the job. Maybe, just maybe, this time… they had sent Parker. How could she know? She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust anyone.

**She was alone.**

**And, she always would be.**

Her eyes, at last, landed on the boards spilled upon the floor, and the highlighters dotted around. And, she wondered whether he had came for some high-school project that she had quite forgotten about. If so, it was a peculiar thing to dream about. Peculiar indeed, to the point where one had to wonder whether it was a dream after all. So many things just didn’t add up. “I need— I need… I should message Tony,” she grumbled, a petite hand reaching out, feeling around her. 

Time was weird. It felt like a lifetime ago that Parker had crouched down to check it she was concussed. And yet, only now had his fingers reached over, brushed past her face and lifted to check her vitals. She peered into his hazel eyes back, and wondered how she’d never noted how they reminded one of the sea. They reminded her of rock-pools, particularly those in  _ Loch na Keal, Scotland _ , where she’d visited on a seaside vacation, when she was younger, with her parents. They upheld a dark, greyish brown, like the rigid strengths structure of the rocks themselves. Yet, this yielded to the gentler brown, soft as his demeanour. Between such were dots of vivacious algae, khaki green, which held light in a way she’d never imagined the colour could do, the very matter which gave life to the seas themselves. For a moment, she could her the softest swishing of the tide against the ribbed sea-sand. For the moment, she felt secure, safe, protected.

**She withdrew.**

**Her sense had begun to creep back.**

“I’m fine. I’m okay…” she attempted to pick herself up completely, failed once more, and tried again. It was to no avail. Her balance appeared to fail her, or had even become an alien concept to her body altogether. “Just… back off, okay?” She muttered, more to her racing heart, and panic that ate at her gut. She didn’t let people that close to her. She couldn’t. “I—“ she rubbed her head once more, before momentarily resting her head in her hands, hung. “What is all this about, Peter?” She asked at last. “Why does it look like someone has broken into Mr. Warren’s science lab and lashed all of his…  _ shit… _ in my apartment?”

  
  


**Peter Parker:**

Peter had half expected Sophia to smack his hand away, what she did instead was rather concerning, she leaned into his touch and allowed him access to her eyelids. This all but answered if she was concussed or not, but he had to be sure. He lightly pried one eyelid open between his two fingers and stared deep into her pupils. They had been swallowed up by her irises, and were hard to locate as they retreated into the depths of her eye to shelter her brain from the overwhelming sensory information her vision picked up, allowing it to focus on minimizing its injuries. 

The enlarged blue pools dropped off into the deep, unending blackness of her shrunken pupils, like the ocean into Marina’s Trench. Peter was perplexed by the haunting image. He could feel the intensity of her stare as he tumbled down the cavern of darkness as if trying to find a glimpse of the soul that lived within her. 

There was a saying how the eyes are the windows to one's soul. Peter was learning that was very true. Within the spiral of black, reflecting blue, he could see the deep scars that haunted Sophia’s dreams and motivated her, drove her. At the same time he could see glimpses of the person she hid from view, of someone before the pain, buried beneath the scar tissue and stitched away inside her. 

_ Am I dreaming?  _

Just like that, he was snapped back to the present. He blinked and shyly looked away from her for a moment, clearing his throat. Any breakthroughs Peter made were squashed by her rather candid statement. _ I didn’t think that I liked you that much, Parker.  _ How utterly charming of her to say. Peter felt his mouth dry out to the point it felt like two pieces of sandpaper being rubbed together when she mentioned a romantic dream. A light pink dusted his cheeks, as he fell back to sit a little farther away from her. 

“It most definitely is not,” he assured her. He pulled his knees up towards his chest and looped his arms around them, to signal that he was not going to touch her again. Allowing her to continue to ramble as he looked down at her, as long as she kept talking and remaining still he wasn’t too concerned yet. There was no doubt she had a concussion, but he knew that going to the hospital was useless, they’d only send her home and tell him to watch her. “Jason Mamoa? Khal Drogo? Why do people think he’s hot? He looks like Kenai from Brother Bear if he was a real, and I’m still not sure if he’s the live action bear or person,” he muttered to himself, bemused by his own joke. 

_ I should message Tony.  _

Peter’s heart stopped, she most definitely should not do that. What would Mr. Stark think if he showed up to find Sophia laid out while Peter hovered over her like this? He could practically see the line sprout up between them from within the floorboards of Sophia’s apartment. Peter reached up and wiped the back of his hand along his forehead, swiping away sweat, he hadn’t even realized he had been sweating. He wiped it on the thigh of his jeans. 

Sophia struggled to rise up off the floor, and Peter instantly reached out a hand, instinctively to her back to aid her. 

“Hey easy now. You gotta go slow you just bashed your head into the ground. Don’t make it worse,” he warned. Despite her harsh words, he kept his hand to her back, knowing if he removed it she might go sailing back towards the ground. He looked around at the  _ shit  _ she was talking about. He gave a sheepish laugh, it all felt a little silly now. 

“I...well...you said you had this big mystery to solve right? And I know you said you didn’t want any help, but everyone needs some help, so I bought a bunch of supplies for us to start laying out the clues. Or-or just you and I can be your sounding board, whatever you’re comfortable with, I know this is personal and I don’t mean to pry into your business, I just, you seemed so distraught and I wanted to help you and…” He was doing it again. “Sorry, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous. Uh-not that I’m nervous...I…” He snapped his jaw shut, his mouth forming a thin line in a vow of silence. 

  
  
  


**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

In the short-lived years of her life, Sophia had found that if you pushed people away, hard enough, they tended to all leave, eventually. Such was not true of Peter Parker. Maybe, he was different. Maybe, she just hadn’t pushed hard enough yet. Whatever it was, it was bound to crash and burn, like all else tended to. She had an inverted Midas touch, after all. Only, instead of Gold, everything she touched turned ‘to a steaming pile of shit— withered, shrivelled, died and decayed.

Alas, Sophia found herself upon her feet— and not without a little assistance. Having composed herself, she squirmed beneath the helping hand of Parker, her spine rolling away from his fingertips, and instinctively began to accumulate distance between them. And, as she walked, she slowly bent to pick down a scattered marker, here and there, with pin board or two occasionally between. She did so without a single word uttered, all the time listening to him talk, or rather try.

She had a right mind to shove it back to him, maybe even send him hurtling as he had to her. As a matter of fact, the urge was overwhelming. So, why did she find herself silenced, softly placing the pieces down one by one on the kitchen island? “I...well...you said you had this big mystery to solve right? And I know you said you didn’t want any help, but everyone needs some help…” she continued to let him talk, heading into the kitchen area, occasionally stealing a glance, to allow him insight that she was still listening. Pulling out a cartoon of apple juice, she placed out a single glass, and began to pour a drink. Peter concluded, “sorry, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous. Uh-not that I’m nervous...I…” And, in that moment, she understood why she couldn’t return the favour; lashing out at him, it was like kicking a big-brown eyed puppy. 

  
  


Her head fell down, avoiding his gaze by all costs, as what could have been said to be a ‘smile’ trailed her peachy lips. It was a smile that she fought back with all costs, like a line of rope in a game of ‘tug-of-war’. Her fingers momentarily, tapped the glass before, without opening those lips, she slid it to him across the counter. “I hope you like Thai food,” she said, at last, without another glimpse in his direction. Having pulled out another crystal rock, she poured herself a glass this time, before heading towards the door that he had steam-trained on through and closing it firmly, setting the locks as she often did once home alone. 

  
  


She didn’t make light of her situation, alone, and had grown up without a childish naivety, always with the notion that whoever had killed her parents would one day return to finish the job. “My great-aunt used to scold me ‘you are what you eat’, y’know? And, well… I mean, Pizzas they’re quite circular. I don’t think I’d like to be a Pizza. But, Thai, it’s oriental, fresh — depending on where you get it— and shapeless. Not that I necessarily find myself inclined to become shapeless... But— well, you get the gist of it, I hope”.

Sophia followed his gaze around the apartment, and found herself recluse from his thoughts. She fancied that he was wondering why she had no family pictures at all, or how on Earth a girl as young as himself could afford to live here— better yet, alone? “I used to live in a Townhouse, uhm— a few blocks from here— not Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea— with my Aunt. My Great Aunt”. She gulped, finding something— perhaps, her words— stuck in her throat. “She’s not— uh, dead—but she…” she shook her head, or rather away the threat (but only a threat) of tears in the back of her eyes. “She was never very well,” Sophia concluded, at last. “Deteriorating. I spent my childhood looking after my own guardian”. She shrugged, rolling her eyes as though she affiliated no emotion with the matter. That was a lie, of course. She was, in spite of how she wanted to portray herself, only human. “They have a name for them, these days. A young carer”.

“It’s a hard knock life,” she waved her hand, once more, mirroring, as Tony would, the dismissal of misfortune. “It’s just one of those… things,” she whispered the final word; almost as if it were only for herself. “I sent her away, when I turned sixteen”. The young girl continued on. “It was a weak thing to do— selfish, even— but I did it anyway. I pay for her care home, down south. Luxury Living. But, other than Agatha, I’m alone. No one will interrupt us. Not unless Tony takes it upon himself to play ‘Godfather’, which he does actually do…  _ sporadically _ ”. 

Opening the cupboard on the lower right-hand side, she withdrew a canary-coloured packet of chips. Then, from the centre, she revealed an embellished bowl, which resembled a half-sliced, and hollow, pearl. Pulling apart the packet, she poured the contents into the bowl. Then, with playful lightness, she stole one with her index finger and thumb, and clasped it between her two front teeth. “My Uncle is my legal guardian. Although, I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw him. He’s my actual uncle, paternal. Agatha never liked him; always said the devil was within them Brusetti boys”. She shrugged, slender shoulders rolling backwards. “Don’t expect to see him, anyway. He runs the business. It’s supposed to be by-proxy, but I suspect I’ll struggle to weave it back”. Indeed, Sivas Brusetti had weaved his web around his target with pure and hard, impenetrable, silk. 

“No point in suspecting him. He and my father were close. Inseparable, so they say”. Raising a finger for silence, Sophia halted, pondered momentarily whether she ought to retrieve a few documents for them to rifle through, and decided it would be better explained through such. She slinked away, for a second, towards the cupboard besides the settee. From which, she opened a safe, and withdrew a small box containing photographs, legal scripts, and video and cassette tapes alike. Half of such things looked as though they ought to be in a museum, and most definitely not carried along into the future of this century.

“Here,” she plastered a single photograph to the board before them, gently placing a pin in each corner, as though scared to pierce the flesh of a memory. Open the film were two beaming faces, both with their arms around one another. Sophia couldn’t recall ever having seen either of them so happy. Stealing a yellow post-it note, and a black marker, she wrote in block capitals:  **SIVAS BRUSCETTI, PROXY CEO OF BRUSCO.** For a moment, she stood in continued silence, unable to pry her eyes away from the ghosts of a life that no longer existed, before, at last, she exhaled a long and withdrawn breath and returned her attention to the dull-brown box. 

Withdrawing a few family photos, Alcott-Brusetti visibly winced, as though stabbed in the side, or even the heart, before placing them face down. She didn’t bother to note her own beaming face; she scarcely recognised anyone upon the print, much alone herself. The young girl— the happy child— nestled between a loving family was a girl from another life. It wasn’t Sophia, not to her. Moving onward, to distract her hurtling heart, she withdrew what had mostly intrigued her from the start, the Oscorp documents, of which were already littered with her own annotations and newspaper clippings. Sophia stole a single one from the sandpaper file, and stabbed it to the lower right corner, the pin placed right in the centre of Norman’s head. 

**‘MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN’,** the paper exclaimed, portraying a picture of Andrei Brusetti and Norman Osborn vivaciously shaking hands. Huh. No pun intended there. Sore choice of words, Bulletin. “The documents aren’t exactly… well, I took them from my uncle. Although, they **_are…_** **_technically…_** mine”. Technically being the big word here. “They describe a series of exchanges as they happened in the meetings. I’ve analysed them like a thousand times, and they’re pretty self explanatory. There’s no need for the whole ‘the curtains were blue so…’ crap you have in Ms. Wilson’s advanced lit. By the end of the meetings, Norman was pretty pissed”.

Finally, Sophia passed him a smaller looking document, a leaflet. And this, unlike the others, was not related to the case. “If we’re going to do this, I need some food. I’m practically starving. Have a look and choose something so I can order. It’s probably going to be a long night”. 

  
  
  


**Peter Parker:**

Peter did not push Sophia upwards, for he knew she was capable of lifting herself and wouldn’t want the help anyway. Instead, he provided her a safety net, someone to catch her should she fall again, a comfort he guessed she hadn’t had in a long time. Steadied on her feet with little grace, but a strong foundation, like a statue being erected of Venus herself. With a feline ease, Sophia curled her way away from Peter’s hand, done with the use of it for now and began to saunter deeper into the apartment.

Without hesitation, Peter began to patter after her, picking up stray supplies as he went as well. The only indication he was given to continue were her glances, like bread crumbs, offering a mild semblance of a path. As he rambled, he found himself taking in the place, the less than humble, abode of Sophia Brusetti Alcott. The walls were all but barren, minus the paint that had been applied to them, and any décor that did hang upon them seemed like it was put up from some place of strange obligation to put them there. Personal touches, that made a space one’s own, like Peter was used to did not exist here. No certifications of achievement from Sophia, hung up for all to see how proud her guardians were. No family photos, hell no photos at all. The white, plain décor helped draw attention to how wildly clean the place was, lacking any sort of strewn out belongings, forgotten books being read, shoes casually tossed in the corner, nothing but emptiness. Peter could swear he picked up on the faint smell of cleaning supplies as well. This was not a home; this was not a place for the living, this was a crypt where Sophia had come to live out the rest of her life in solitude shut away from anyone who had hurt her and had the potential to do so again.

  
  
  


Peter’s face twisted like he’d smelled something sour, yet at the same time he looked on the verge of sad tears. 

Hands full, he emptied his forage onto the counter in the kitchen as if it were some sacred offering to the ghost that haunted the apartment. Peter’s trailing voice seemed to hang in the air between them, as nothing more was said. Shoving his now vacant hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, he watched her pour a glass of apple juice wondering if it was for him or her. To his pleasant surprise, it was poured for his own enjoyment. Reaching out, he stared at her hesitant as he finally closed his hand around it and pulled it to his lips. 

With a small nod, he uttered a soft thank you before gulping down the glass, staring over the rim at Sophia. His gulping echoed out from within the cup, his face scrunched. He was paying no attention to how fast he was drinking, only her. Pity wasn’t the right word for what Peter felt for Sophia, nor was sympathy. Sorrow. He felt sorrow for her, for what she must have experienced to be in this place, for being left so alone, and in many ways, he saw himself in her. Had Aunt May and Uncle Ben not been around, Peter might have been like Sophia, not in this lavish of a lifestyle, but on his own with only his memories to keep him warm at night. Sophia, on the other hand, seemed to have folded even that blanket of comfort and tossed it into the closet away from anywhere she may have to come face to face with it. He didn't blame her for it, if it wasn’t for May he probably would have hidden away most of his painful reminders as well. 

Sophia walked back to close the door they had left open in all the chaos, her own glass in hand. Sucking down the last drop of his own, Peter set it on the counter with a soft clink. He gasped for the air he had displaced with apple juice and reached up wiping the back of his hand across his lips. 

“Th-thai food? Oh yeah, I love Thai food,” he said breathlessly. Peter scooted one of the white stools out from under the island and straddled it, crossing his arms on the counter top. Did she just make a joke? Peter chuckled before he could stop himself. “Well, scientifically speaking you could never be shapeless. Even things without the shapes we know aren’t shapeless, just unclassified…” he stopped himself again from sounding like a crass asshole. “Circular would be unfortunate though wouldn’t it? Though, when I knocked into you earlier you would have rolled instead of fallen,” he said with a weak laugh trying to lighten the mood. 

Peter really wished he had savored that glass of apple juice, for as Sophia began to disclose some actual personal details about herself, allowing Peter to peak behind the curtain, he had nothing to fidget with to dispel his nerves. Glancing down at his bouncing knee, Peter listened intently to her speak about an aunt assigned as her guardian, even though she was less than capable of handling the task. 

His eyes snapped up when she called herself weak. Sophia did not strike him as someone looking for sympathy, so Peter offered her none, instead he offered her one of the most priceless things in the entire universe, empathy. A feeling that someone had listened, understood, but did not tell you what you already know or try and fix it. However, when you looked into their eyes you could see the reflection of what you were feeling, signaling that someone on some level shared your pain. 

“Strong,” he corrected with a strong staccato, he hadn’t meant to voice his thought, but things had a way of escaping his filter. He leaned back in the stool to regard her. “Sorry, uh, I just don’t think that makes you weak. Doing what you did. That was a tough decision, but you made it and you did what was best for both of you. To recognize that and make the hard calls, that makes you strong…” He averted his gaze out the panes of windows that lined the outside wall, reaching up to scratch the arch of his ear, unable to meet her gaze after making such a strong proclamation. “In, uh, in my opinion that is…” he muttered the amendment to his previous statements of conviction. 

The bell like ding of the chips pouring into the bowl drew Peter’s attention back to the marble island. As if on cue, he felt a low rumble in his stomach, thinking about it now he realized he had skipped lunch and hadn’t eaten since breakfast where he had choked down a banana. Sophia withdrew a chip in such a childish manner Peter couldn’t help but smile as he plucked one of his own. Peter contently chomped on the bowl of chips while Sophia disappeared around the corner to retrieve the information they would need to start their investigation. 

Retuning moments later, with a box of memories and the foundation of their mystery. Sophia placed the first photo on the board and began to speak to it, an audio photo caption. Peter leaned forward and eyed Sivas, his eyebrows peaked when she dismissed him as a suspect only to continue to talk about how he now more or less owned the company the Bruscetti’s left behind. He didn’t want to speak ill of her Uncle or suggest anything just yet, but if anything he was suspect number one in Peter’s book. Not being close to the subjects of their mystery made it easier for him to disassociate with the emotional side of the equation. Rather her uncle was close to her father or not, people had done worse to their family members. 

Perhaps what drew Peter’s attention more than Sivas was Sophia’s father. He smiled looking up at her from the photo. 

“You look a lot like him,” he commented. Then she withdrew a family portrait and he saw how perfect of a mix Sophia was of both her mother and father. Perhaps the most jarring part of the picture was the drastic difference between the little girl in the photo and the Sophia in front of him now. It was sad to see how time, how life, changed someone, dimmed their lights, sucked up their happiness like a dementor. Then a newspaper clipping was slipped onto the board and viciously stabbed into place. Peter looked at it and felt his heart skip a beat, he crossed his arms over his in an attempt to guard away his feelings. Just like that any emotional detachment Peter had from this situation dissipated.

Norman Osborn. Growing up, Peter and Norman’s only son, Harry Osborn, had been absolutely inseparable. Harry had practically become the Parker’s second son, well mostly May and Ben’s second son. They always insisted that Harry stay with them when Norman went on long trips instead of with some caretaker that Norman had hired. Harry’s mother had died shortly after the birth of her son, so Harry had no other parental figure, besides the carousel of nannies his father went through for him. May and Ben had quickly taken him into their nest, helping to raise Harry in a way that Peter saw him more like his brother than his friend. 

There had been a few times that he had run into Norman himself, and each time Peter had held a slight begrudgement towards him for not being there for his son. Peter had witnessed the pain that weighed on Harry’s heart everytime Richard Parker actually came home and gave his son affection, something Norman did not seem capable of. Norman was always more than kind to Peter, but he could barely bring himself to touch his son, to give him kind words. 

As he got older, Peter began to understand Norman, especially after the loss of his own loved ones. Norman didn’t distance himself to hurt Harry, or because he didn’t care, he did it because he cared too much. That was clear to Peter. He wanted to create the best life possible for his son and at the same time he was running from the ghost of his wife, living in the first step of grief for all his days.

Peter didn’t believe Norman was the greedy, evil businessman like most people did.  _ Business is business Peter. A messy game, but a necessary one. _ Norman had told him once. Now, he was being asked to dig deeper into the Norman Osborn conspiracy. 

“I...may have an in to any files from Oscorp,” he said, brows furrowing at his own reckless offer. Peter reached out to take the pamphlet she slid to him, thinking it was another clue, but instead he found a food menu. “Which I will evaluate on after we order,” he added, his stomach giving another growl. He flipped it open and scanned the menu. Picking out his meal, he relayed the information to her and then waited for her to order. While she sorted out their food, Peter withdrew his laptop from his backpack and booted it up. 

“Alright. I have some access to the basic Oscorp database, don’t ask me how, top secret. If I told you I’d have to kill you,” he said, humming in amusement at his own joke. Peter began to furiously type on his keyboard. “What are we looking for here?”


	5. Chasing Cars (Part 2)

**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

“Well, scientifically speaking you could never be shapeless...” The lower left corner of her peach lips twitched instinctively, an itch she immediately attempted to qualm to no avail; like sweet sunshine at the start of spring, tiny beams of airy light cracked between the grey clouds that lingered from a long and hard winter. Once more, Sophia found herself not only smiling, but even suppressing the urge to laugh aloud, from where she stood, arms strapped beneath her chest in a manner than inarguably had been inherited from time spent with non-other than Tony Stark. “Even things without the shapes we know aren’t shapeless, just unclassified…” he paused once more, and she watched him, closely, from how his leg bounced beneath the weight of his uncertainty— perhaps nerves or a way to burn out the excess energy that he appeared to carry everywhere, no matter the circumstances—to how his tongue often moved around his mouth in a manner befitting a member of a search team, seeking the right words to say, perchance forever wondering whether the ones he had chosen were best-fit. “Circular would be unfortunate though, wouldn’t it? Though, when I knocked into you earlier you would have rolled instead of fallen”. His laugh could be described in no better way than soft, completely fitting of his entire demeanour… sweet. It was as though God itself, or whatever lurked above, had crafted it solely to be one of those blessings in the hardest of times—a rock to breathe upon when battling tiresome currents, and a gentle summer breeze beneath the scorching sun. Once more, she gave into the laughter that tickled the back of her throat and-- though an undoubtable hater of the English verb, and the stereotypical image that accompanied it—joined him, bemused, with a gentle giggle, like little bees or the sweet drizzling honey that they made. 

“I suppose I would have,” she stole a glimpse at him, just one, between cascading auburn strands, before looking back down at her arms and composing herself as she guessed she ought. If her walls were made of thick ice, from frosty torments across the years, it was inarguable that this friend she had found—or rather, stumbled upon—was a summer long overdue, more than capable of melting away such mighty heights. “And, although rolling would undoubtedly have its benefits—” she attempted to not laugh, coughing, and covering her face, to uphold a Stark like dominance over herself and the topic of conversation.”—I don’t think that it would be little more help elsewhere. In fact, if this whole thing ever came to conflict,” she had always presumed it would be a when, rather than an if, but most certainly did not want to involve innocent, little Peter in that, “I’d imagine that they’d roll me away, like Violet Beauregarde and the Oompa Loompas”. Pop culture references seemed inevitable when in the presence of Peter Parker. Yet, as fun as they were, they were inescapably a waste of precious time, time better spent brainstorming, in her opinion at least. And, who could blame her? It wasn’t as though she’d exactly endured a childhood of fun and…well, just a childhood altogether really. Parker was a breath of fresh air, youth incarnate, but—Sophia, she needed to focus on the things that mattered, things beyond herself, and any fun that she may secretly yearn for.

And, so, she continued on, telling him her story as a matter of factly. There was no sorrow in her tone—neither self-pity nor melancholy—it was almost flat and omniscient, detached, as though a biographer, rather than the woman herself. Every now and again, though, she would perhaps steal another look or so, telling herself it was merely to see if he were indeed still listening, worthy of the task ahead of them. He bettered her. There was no pity from him, either, but for once in her life she find herself struggling intensely to read him – what he felt, what he was thinking – and began to chew, pulling with her front teeth, upon her lower lip. No matter what though, his mind did not once stray from what she had to say; his ears absorbed each word as though it were the very sustenance which he needed to thrive, essential to his very existence.

“—Strong”. The word appeared to have come from nowhere, like a stray fork of lightning, or a gust of wind carried by the sea. As a matter of a fact, Sophia wondered if she had imagined the words herself, an accumulation of something that her oppressed heart had simply yearned too long to hear, appearing as a consequent hallucination. It wasn’t, luckily enough. For, when she finally found the gut to bring her eyes to meet his own—the first time since her mild concussion—he clarified what he had said with, “Sorry, uh, I just don’t think that makes you weak. Doing what you did. That was a tough decision, but you made it and you did what was best for both of you. To recognize that and make the hard calls, that makes you strong…” He broke the connection of earth and sky, averting his glance to the glass walls at his right hand side. And, though her cheeks felt a little warm, Sophia undeniably felt a little colder for the loss of it. The hairs on her arms and neck rising slightly beneath the eerie chill. “In, uh, in my opinion that is…”

A sharp inhalation, as she struck a nerve prying the flesh from the inside of her cheek, Alcott-Brusetti scratched at the side of her head, just at the back of her left ear, and shuffled her small weight from one foot onto another. “I—uh”. Her mouth opened, then closed. Then, once more, the motion repeated, her mouth gaping for words as though a fish thirsting for its precious water. For once, she was dumbfounded. What did she say to that? She didn’t know; no one, not a single person, had ever gave her such acknowledgement, justification and support for her chosen actions. His words settled with unease in her stomach, which tied itself voluntary into thousands of tiny knots. She wiped her palms upon her black jeans, shook her head, and with it attempted to shake away his words. 

She continued without verification or correct acknowledgement of his words. Alike Tony, Sophia was unaccustomed to the traditional responses which came with any such words of comfort and affection—and, when confronted with such, again like Stark, she would hide, contentedly, behind colossal walls of facts and practicality, in this case this was the matter at hand. Having concluded her words, and emptied the bag of chips for the two of them, she found herself at the reassurance that Peter understood this, or at least appeared to; as they both youthfully bit into the snack between them, they were once more exposed to the other’s warming glance and childish chuckles.

  
  


It almost felt as though she were on a rollercoaster, sat there, alone with him, at the kitchen island— the undoubtable troughs and peaks of the conversation taking their emotional toll. She’d placed the photographs down, stupidly, not wanting the pain that came from a single glance at them, and Peter had, understandably, picked them up thinking that they were a clue of some sort. “You look a lot like him”. Six words and, it hurt more than she could ever have imagined, more than six blades, six pits filled with hell, fire, and damnation, and whatever beastly things lurked there. She’d rather descend to the sixth layer of hell, than to hear such words mentioned again, and such emotion reigned upon the porcelain doll-like features of her face.

Wincing, she instinctively snatched them back, pushing them back into the corner of the dusty old box, and with them, hopefully, to the corners of her minds’ darkest crevice. “Yea… well,” she mumbled, her chest tight, lungs full but lusting for the air around. “That’s not really gonna bring him back, so…” she couldn’t bring herself to look at Parker; she couldn’t really bring herself to look at anything. Her aunt had said it before. She’d inherited many of her father’s features, the desirable ones “of course”, and many a night had Alcott-Brusetti stayed up and pondered it this, above all, was the real reason that her uncle could not stand a look at her face. Perhaps it was, for him, just as this was for her. 

“Do you…” she began, before shaking her head, kicking herself. It was stupid, a silly thing to ask. Nonetheless, Peter had heard her, and he was nothing— absolutely nothing at all— if not persistent, a small pup at the very heel of those whom they prized dear to enough. “Do you remember them?” She looked at him at last. “Your parents,” she clarified. “Do you think about them a lot?” It was unlikely that he was about to delve into the heaviest parts of his helium soul, and still, she found herself unable to move— from the topic and from staring, steadily, at the dark pools of eyes, which she was certain hid a lot more than the glimmer that met the surface. “I mean, you were young, weren’t you?” Peter didn’t exactly come across as the type of person to dwell on misfortune. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t imagine that there was a fibre of his very being that upheld the notion of misery. Yet, she felt as though, whatever he felt, he could express it to her, as he said: orphan to orphan.

Not wishing to probe too deeply, without giving something in return, she fiddled anxiously with her fingers, and aired her first few words of true sustenance. “I dream about what happened every night, without fail. I- it never gets any easier, so sometimes— most nights— I find myself praying to stay awake. I’d rather suffer the deprivation, y’know, than relive it again, and again, and—“ she paused, exhaling softly, to ease the weight upon her heart. “But it takes me, eventually. Sleep, I mean”. Even talking about it… the images flashed through her mind, images seared into her very being for the rest of her eternity. She gestured to the box that held the photos with a sad smile. “And, sometimes, I find myself actually thankful that it happens… the dreams… well, the nightmares. I’m scared. I know… I know it’s stupid, it makes no sense…” she looked up and met his eyes, as though to peek behind the curtain of pretence and read his emotions. “But, I- I don’t want to forget them. And, at the same time, I don’t really want to remember, either. It’s like, no matter what I do, I always lose”.

Did he feel that? She doubted it. Parker carried himself with such ease, such merriness, that she presumed these qualms alien to him. But, were they? Were they actually? As the topics flowed from one into another, she found herself ever-more perplexed by the enigma of a boy before her. Slowly but surely, however, she was beginning to arrive at a conclusion, to accumulate a picture of what she was dealing with. Only, she needed confirmation. Peter Parker was not the happy-go-lucky dork everyone supposed him to be. He was highly intelligent, that was for sure, and he certainly had an interest in nerdy things. But, if you looked at him— really looked at him— for long enough, you could see the clockwork ticking behind them dark eyes of his, constantly moving, flitting, with every passing second. They say with power comes great responsibility. And, with intelligence, then, certainly came a great amount of dismay. For a mind of youth capable of calculating quantum physics was a mind that was probably never at ease.

This troubled mind sought peace. You see, though alike in many ways, Peter and Sophia differed in one very distinct manner: Parker was open, eternally seeking his happiness. He was in the dark, sure. Yet, there were a few flickers of light in the abysmal doom: his Aunt, Ned, probably even some perks of school. He clung onto these with all that he was, and it gave him the hope to keep going in his darkness— to keep going and someday reach the end of the cave, embrace the daylight. Sophia, however, was only embracive of one fact: the cave had no end. Or, better yet, the cave **was** the end. 

“When want to look back at 2009 files, approaching July would be best. If you can, you want to see who Norman was in contact with, any transactions and payments that may appear out of routine, and also I want to see the output of the business post… after the accident. If Oscorp profited greatly from what happened, it gives us at least a motive”. Closing her eyes, Alcott-Brusetti found herself finally acknowledging something she wished she wouldn’t; maybe, just maybe, she needed Parker after all. His access to these files could be the missing piece to her puzzle, they could be just the piece she needed in order to gain sight of the bigger picture.

“While you get started, I’ll order the food,” she informed him, gesturing to the door behind him. “Give me a shout if something immediately catches your eye”. That said, she trudged forth to the back-room, or rather “The Study”, not that she used it for such a concept. She was scarcely “home”, and when she was she kept to her own room. The rest of the apartment was simply too big for one, small teenage girl. Glancing at her smartphone for the first time in a while, Sophia rolled her eyes at the sight that befell. 0 missed calls. 0 text messages. 0 notifications. Probably because the only person that cared was sat in her kitchen, and she’d only met him yesterday. 

“Tony, you’re an asshole,” she whispered to herself, sinking back into the desk chair and rubbing her face with her hands. “Because a simple text message would be so hard…” came a grumble, as she dialled in the number from the leaflet, and mentally prepped herself, rehearsing what she was going to say, word by word, so that she did not fumble. Once the order was taken, and a price was agreed, followed by the promise of “food in thirty minutes or full refund”, she took a long exchange of air, and headed back towards the atrium. “Anything?” She called out, closing the door behind her. “Oh, food will be here before the next hour, apparently,” she pointed at her phone, as though to gesture to her prior phone call. It felt weird… this… all of it. “I still can’t believe you ordered _that_ ”. Her small nose scrunched beneath apparent disgust. “I mean, I guess you’re not as adventurous as I thought you were, which was admittedly already very tame. Does your Aunt cook a lot? I’m guessing you’re used to home-cooked… food”. Her sentences began to slow, as she reached behind him.

Man, he was _really_ online, like _online-online_. How on earth did Peter Parker have access to… well, all of this? “Say, Parker, you’re not going to go all Ben Solo on me, are you?” Something she was learning quickly: Peter tended to comprehend things a lot more if they were in reference to the fandoms he liked. She was versed enough in Star Wars (E.G. had merely seen the movies) to know that Ben went all dark and killed his fellow Jedi-trainee people. What were they called… padawins? Irrelevant. She reached the back of him, where he sat straddled upon the island chair, and looked from over his shoulder. Her chin hovered metres above his right shoulder. Her cheek almost touched his own. “I mean… where did you even get access to all of this? How?”

  
  


**Peter Parker:**

Laughter. A sweet, light giggle, like bubbles that floated inside a glass of champagne, poured out between them and Peter found himself entranced by it, a true sirens song. This, her true laugh, he had a feeling not many were privy to such a majestic sound and he felt honored to have been admitted to such an exhibition. The icy queen, who hid and concealed, Elsa reincarnated, had allowed him a glimpse through the window of her icy castle. He blinked away his shock, not wanting to draw attention to it, if he made too big of a deal about it there was a chance he would never hear it again, that he would spend his entire life searching for anything that even remotely pleased his ears such as that sweet frequency. The sound dropped off the radar all together when she spoke of her aunt and when he had interjected his simple word.

  


The intensity of Sophia’s stare had made it even harder for him to finish his sentiment, to think about anything, as the sea lapped up at the light brown shore, consuming it momentarily before receding once more, allowing him to pull away and finish his thought. He could see the discomfort speaking his mind had caused her, how she shifted, squirming under the weight of something he felt she probably knew was true, yet self loathing didn't adhere to the truth did it? 

Only the light hearted movements of their hands, as they plucked up the chips from the bowl, broke the silence and saved them both from having to speak further about what he had said. Peter didn’t expert, nor want, her to acknowledge it, he didn’t want her to thank him or correct him, he just wanted it to...to be. He wanted his words to exist to her and maybe at some point connect with her. 

However, it was his next six words he found that struck her, but not in a melodic cord, more like a slap to the face. He knew he shouldn’t have said it. Peter struggled to know how things would land with Sophia. There had been two outcomes to his statement, she would appreciate it, love being compared to her father, or she would hate it, resent it, for he imagined she looked in the mirror each day and found them there. No matter how much she squirreled away the memorabilia, she couldn’t hide her face, she couldn’t change the incline of her eyebrows, the width and length of her nose, or the way her eyes squinted just like his when she smiled. 

_That’s not really gonna bring him back, so…_

“I-” Peter choked on the word, practically ribitting like a frog. Before he could apologize, try and amend the cruel snake bite twist he had given her heart, she continued. _Do you…_ His eyebrows rose expectantly, ready to receive her impending question, except she pulled away, hesitated at the edge of the emotion cliff she was staring down, before diving in head first, in a manner Peter would never have expected. Sophia didn’t strike him as the type to enjoy heart to hearts, or sharing emotions of any manner. Coming here tonight, he hadn’t expected her to share any emotional context with him, to let him in on anything besides what he had to know. Things like her aunt, her relation with her Uncle, those were excursions on this journey they were sharing, nice add ons, not part of the main package.

  


_Do you remember them?_ Peter’s chin dropped to his chest, his eyes suddenly very interested in the wood paneling of her floor, waiting for it, for the clarification he knew was coming. _Your parents. Do you think about them a lot? I mean, you were young, weren’t you?_

“I was eight,” he deadpanned, a knee jerk first answer. Did he remember them? Peter felt himself pulling within, into the dangerous jungle of his mind, where thick knots of thorns kept him trapped on one side of the trees, away from the dark drop off that seemed to take place just on the other side. A darkness he so desperately wished to be consumed by, to explore its secrets, yet his body screamed at him, flight desperately trying to convince fight to leave it be. One day, when he acquired the correct tool, he would cut through the thicket like Indiana Jones himself and find whatever treasure or booby traps lay on the other side.

He looked up, catching her staring at him deeply intently, studying him scientifically through the two microscope lenses in her skull. Peter quickly looked down, occupying himself with the zipper of his sweatshirt, pulling it up the silvery track and back down. How did he cherry pick the right words? He didn’t owe her any sort of explanation or back stage pass into his life, and he had half a mind to tell her that, when she started to speak of her dreams and suddenly pulled him off the cliff with her.

_But, I- I don’t want to forget them. And, at the same time, I don’t really want to remember, either. It’s like, no matter what I do, I always lose._

  


Amazing how two people who had never met till this moment could share so much. 

He looked up, seemingly to meet her gaze, but instead he focused on a spot just over her shoulder. His eyes vacating as he traveled somewhere no one could reach. Peter hadn’t wanted to forget them.

Once, he could remember a time, once upon a time, that he remembered them so clearly. When they would go away on their trips he would call upon those images to keep him safe and sound, to fill the void they left. Don’t get him wrong, May and Ben were plenty and he felt selfish even wishing for his biological parents when they did so much for him, but there was something about the real thing. His parents had raised him for the first three years of his life, then when their jobs got busy, suddenly they decided to call upon the rest of their family, though it was small. Peter hadn’t met Ben and May until he was three and a half years old. His parents had kept their little nuclear family secluded, away from them, he wasn’t sure why and he wasn’t sure he would ever know either. 

It was a strange sensation, remembering, remembering, like trying to conjure a word that you know. He could feel an itch inside his skull, one that he couldn’t scratch, and it drove him mad. The tickling sensation of dust sitting on this library of memories. What he could see was blurry, like he was watching under water. He’d practically given himself aneryisums trying to dry them, to see them clearly. Perhaps that was worse than losing them physically, losing even the history of them. There were only blips of images for him to recall, like viewing his life through a ViewMaster, a preset cycle of photographs he could click through at will, but never see beyond, and though muffled, the sound of his mother humming softly to a song he couldn’t remember. 

_“We aren’t sure what’s wrong with him Mr. and Mrs. Parker. Perhaps a coping mechanism. If we try too hard we risk permanent traumatization.”_

He heard the doctor’s voice echo through his head again and the sound of consistent, nervous tapping. Peter looked down to see that he had begun to absentmindedly tap his finger against the countertop. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he leaned back in his chair with a loud, deep breath through his nose that sounded like a sniff, but he wasn’t crying. 

Peter Parker didn’t cry, after all, Peter Parker was happy, optimistic, the sun will come out tomorrow. A perfectly crafted facade that not even the most trained eye had managed to see through, yet. When it had first happened, he had gotten the looks of pity from his classmates and teachers, but he pretended nothing had happened. The amnesia, repressed memories, whatever was happening to him, made that a lot easier. It was hard to miss something you never remembered having. 

“Pieces…” he finally replied, shifting uncomfortably in the plastic stool. He felt if he returned her confession that maybe they could continue to build some sort of friendship. So, he continued, “I used to that is, remember them. Er...I know that doesn’t make sense. I just…” Peter paused licking his lips as if the answer lay there. Reaching up he scratched at the ridge of his nose. “After they died…” he held a fisted hand in front of himself, just between them, staring at it with a warm familiarity. “Most of my memories went... _poof_.” The warmth drained from his face as his fist opened and his hazel eyes seemed to follow the ashes of the pleasant memories across Sophia’s kitchen with a hollow desperation. “I catch glimpses here and there. A time my dad helped me build something with legos or my mom tucking me in. Fuzzy memories or sometimes,” he indicated her with his open palm, “I dream about them. They aren’t memories though, they are some other made up visions my mind seems to have created to replace what it lost. I can tell the difference, which to me, means that the real ones are still somewhere in this mess.” He pointed at his head and sighed. “And what makes me even angrier, is that I remember my Uncle Ben, vividly. So, so why did my hippocampus decide to short circuit with the memories of my parents but not him?”

“I know I must sound crazy. The doctors think it is some sort of coping mechanism or some shit,” he paused, swearing coming out of his mouth tasting funny on his tongue. “Sorry, I just...I truly want to remember and I feel…” he looked helplessly down at his hands, one hand pinching the skin of the other. “...betrayed by my own mind,” he said softly.

This feeling was part of why Peter filled his brain with as much information as he could. He hoped that it would trigger something or finally it would be so filled to the brim with everything else the tidepool of his brain would spillover with the tide of knowledge and release the secrets that lay at the bottom.

Peter finally met Sophia’s gaze once more, the usual sunshine glare of his brown hues overcast by the storm that constantly raged just on the horizon, out of sight of everyone else. He wanted to tell her that he envied her, that she should feel blessed she remembered whatever she did, but he had a feeling her memories weren’t all pure. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before cracking them open again, and suddenly the storm had passed. Brown eyes seemed to shimmer with hope and joy once again, as if the first day of Summer had finally arrived. 

“Anyway…never mind all that.” Peter clapped his hands together, as if closing his psychology file. “Back to the case at hand.”

Then, Peter did what he always did, he buried himself in a project, this time their project, to distract himself from the longing ache in his chest that never quite went away. Taking the information she had given him, he began to sort through countless files. He could vaguely hear her in the distance placing their orders, but soon he heard nothing but the sound of the keyboard and the sifting of his thoughts. His eyes reflected the images of coding and random documents that he pulled up and closed in quick succession. Peter’s tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth in concentration, so deep within the endless spiral of information he didn’t even hear Sophia when she returned to the room. It wasn’t until she was perched behind him that he seemed aware she existed at all. He couldn’t help but grin at her amazement. 

“I have my ways,” he replied coyly. He scoffed when she mentioned Kylo Ren, or Ben Solo as she called him here, which he appreciated. Peter glanced at her and chuckled. “Ben Solo? Do I seem that angsty to you? Don’t get me wrong I love Ben Solo, but I do not have that type of temper.” He shook his head with a tsk. Then his face lit up, a file labeled **Brusetti** popped up in the search query. “Jackpot!” He clicked it like the rest, but the computer made an indignant buzz. “Hold on,” he said, furiously typing something in, Harry’s access codes, but he was met with the same displeased noise of denial. If he wanted to go any further, he would need to call in a favor. 

“I think I can get us in...but I need to contact someone. Can we put everything else together with these other files from the same year and whatever else you’ve gathered first?” Peter spun in the chair, he’d become her guy in the chair, he understood the appeal that Ned felt now. 

  
  


**Sophia Alcott Brusetti:**

Warmth. It shrouded her, as though a coat or jacket on a cold and wintry day, but… _inside_ , as though her heart was being shielded— not by a thick wall of ice— but with a fuzzy, warm blanket and a big mug of cocoa. That’s not to say that warmth was instantaneously a force for good. They say when someone is suffering from frostbite, they need to warm gradually. Rinse the frozen limb under luke-warm water, gradually— slowly but surely— warm them back to the person you know, whole. Peter Parker did not do luke-warm. It was not even a tiny part of who he was, which Sophia was beginning to understand, little by little. Nevertheless, the sensation was a shock to her system. It twisted her gut, troubled her mind, trembled her fingers and weakened her knees. 

Though felt inside, none of such emotion was surfaced, and if it was… it was but a tip of the iceberg which lingered deep beneath. All the troubled energy, pent up emotion, was fixated on a single action of chewing her lip, as always, as she listened to each and every syllable that eluded Peter’s lips, as though missing but a letter would be an imminent disaster to their very survival. And, as she listened, she understood, more and more. The words swooped and turned and flickered all the more conjuring a beautiful, yet troubled, painting of a tortured soul, a soul that Sophia was nearly certain that the artist had never before shown to any other eyes. 

Who would have ever thought that in a random person that she would find this eerie solace? Solace, was that the right word… was this even, truly, what she could name it? In truth, the two of them were polar opposites, on the surface at least. She was darkness, and Peter was the light. Yet, both of them masked a part of the other. For, when the façade of wit, sarcasm, and cold demeanour were removed from the equation, all that was left was a child, one just like Parker, humourous, lustful for life, and hopeful (in spite of all troubles). In essence, she was but a little girl in her mother’s clothes, if that mother was a bearded, billionaire playboy philanthropist, who occasionally liked to save the day. Peter, on the other hand… Peter was the other way around. He never had anything but a smile, a comforting word, a dorky pop culture reference; he was as big of an example of a child, a generation z kid, true and true. Perhaps, there was a lot more to the Chinese symbolism of Yin-Yang than what was superficially aired, claimed, and plastered for artificial “alternative” allure: a deeper, and truly perplexing connection

_I know I must sound crazy…_ **_No_ ** **.** She wanted to scream at him. Her fingers fiddled, intertwined with one another, to restrain herself from reaching out, shaking _some sense into him._ **_Not crazy;_ ** **_human_ ** **_._ ** _The doctors think it is some sort of coping mechanism or some shit._ Did— did— Peter B. Parker— just cuss? _Sorry, I just...I truly want to remember and I feel…_ his gaze fell down, a sight that Alcott was not unfamiliar with, yet felt completely alien to. There was something in it— as though she could literally feel the weight that anchored it, burdened him. Perhaps, it was, again, because the cross she bore was so similarly crafted to his own— of the same wood, the same intricacies and patterns etched deep inside. 

“Hey—“ she had manager to filter in, before she had slinked away to make her orders. “You know… I mean, this whole team work thing is new to me but- well, if it works, who knows what we could do? Maybe, just maybe…” she didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to. He would understand. Call her crazy, but she simply _knew._ And yet, as she had sat, alone, in the study, and pondered. Her mind flickered to something that he had said, something that had stuck with her: the clarity, the difference between the mind conjuring and creating. Peter understood what was _not_ real, which could be nothing but good news, really. As an outsider, with little to gain— admittedly, it would not be hard to claim she had lost objectivity in the matter than Parker was but a small, lost pup, and was impossible not to root for— that had to mean something, right? Surely, that _did_ suggest what he put forth: that the truth lurked beneath. But… 

Refusing to bite her lip any further, she lifted a biro from the desk, when sat in the study, and chowed down on it, hard. But… if that was true. Then, maybe, they were the perfect team. He apparently had ways of enticing information from OsCorp. And she… she had access to Stark Industries and, more importantly, the B. A. R. F. Programme that stark had only so recently demonstrated, as he had pounced around Midtown High auditorium reliving his parents’ final moments. This thought did not, for the rest of the night, once leave the back of her mind, even when she was not thoroughly fixated upon it. 

_I have my ways._ The success of Peter’s borderline legal, perhaps (or rather, _very likely_ ) illegal, activities had been enough to bring her back to the matter at hand, which was— for now— the only thing that truly mattered. One thing at a time, after all. She’d almost rejoiced, at first, when sneaking a peek at his screen, which was quickly replaced by a creeping suspicion and understandable intrigue. Where, oh where, was he pulling such authority to gain this access? How could he retrieve files that she could not, even though _she_ was, at least in part, legally entitled to view? 

He had glanced at her and chuckled. And her stomach had shrivelled, sickeningly, again. Sophia felt a little uneasy, beneath the duress of so many different emotions: excitement, intrigue, nerves, maybe even a little admiration, and… something, one which fell a little short of the familiarity that the others shared. Nonetheless, she found herself smiling a little back at him, tucking the stray hair, which fell between the two of them, behind her ear. Then, coughed, lightly, a small fist in front of her parted lips. She had not quite realised how much she had invaded his personal space. It was something she’d rather lost a grasp of in the whirlwind moment. 

Her cerulean blues darted rightward, as though there were something to see. She took a small, sheepish, step back. _Ben Solo? Do I seem that angsty to you... I do not have that type of temper_. “Never say never,” she chirped. “I’m not exactly rife with team spirit, and yet here we are”. Here they were indeed. “Besides, the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are,” she spoke a matter of factly, as though she were not quoting a multi-million dollar best seller, both eyebrows raised and lips pursed. 

He shook his head with a tsk. And, before she could comment much else, fate intervened first, beating her to the finish line: _Jackpot! Hold on..._ whatever luck Peter had conjured, seemed to be running out, or rather… was gone. Whatever was in these files was supposed to stay buried, a fact present in the distinct heightened encryption. This was not just a typical lock and key password. No, OsCorp had embalmed this information and stuck it thousands of feet beneath the booby-trapped pyramids of Giza. Sophia could not refrain from an irked growl. She was so close— closer than ever— and yet, the truth felt adventures away. As though she were going to have to recruit Indie himself to help on this one. _I think I can get us in...but I need to contact someone. Can we put everything else together with these other files from the same year and whatever else you’ve gathered first?_

“Sure… I— _we_ will probably have to plan beforehand how much we’re going to reveal to them, though, right? Particularly so, if this is someone affiliated with the business, someone who would benefit from warning Norman”. Sophia had a feeling that this was going to test Peter’s loyalties, a lot. He’d gained his access somehow, after all, and she wasn’t born yesterday. “Here, print out that one—“ she pointed at the screen, the transactions, the accounts. “I have the equivalent from BrusCo. We can compare third party donations etcetera. It’s not exactly brain food, or even remotely interesting, but—“ the doorbell rang. “And, speaking of food. Give me a moment, yeah?” Without another word, she extended her hand, squeezed his shoulder, in a friendly and unforeseen manner, and headed to the door with a somewhat spring in her step.

When she returned, mouth full already, and stomach ravenously growling, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and gave an unapologetic smirk. “Mm. I am starved”. She placed the two bags upon the kitchen island, ducking down beneath to pull out two plates. “Drink?” She asked him, recalling how quickly he had quenched his glass of juice. “I think I might be a little bit unhealthy and go for a Pepsi”. Her back turned, significant for someone who always had their guard up, slicing the night which had begun to dwell with the lighting of the fridge. She retrieved their two drinks. 

Pulling a chair around, Sophia sat opposite him, and thoughtlessly popped the can open, and brought it to her lips. She exhaled, replenished, placed it down, then— resting her cheek in the palm of her hand, propped up on her elbow— watched him closely. “If this is going to work, we’re going to need to be truthful”. She removed her eyes from him, feigning disinterest, as though she wasn’t on to his entire apparent relationship with the Osborns. She was testing him. “What’s the sitch, with you and the Luther Stickell level computer skills. You’re a dork. You’re clever. But, you wouldn’t have been so quick—“ It wasn’t that she doubted his skill, but rather his speed, “—without assistance. So, tell”. At last, she glanced up from her food, which she had carted onto her plate whilst goading him, and let her hands fall at either side as she awaited. “And, as cute as it can be to watch you fumble for excuses, I don’t have a lot of patience”. He could thank Tony for that.

  
  


**Peter Parker:**

Eyeing her twiddling fingers, Peter assumed that he had made her uncomfortable, mistaking the gesture for one of judgment. It wouldn’t be the first time, even the professionals seemed uncomfortable when he told them, as if memory loss was suddenly contagious. Blood concentrated under his cheeks, lighting up his chiseled cheekbones, his shoulders drew inwards acting as his own personal tortoise shell against any reaction she could have about what he’d said. He clasped his hands in the space between his knees, extending his fingers towards the floor, unable to meet her gaze. 

Though it had only been a couple seconds since he had seized talking, it felt like a lifetime, and he began to imagine melting and sliding through the cracks in her hardwood floors, never to be seen again. Why couldn’t his spider powers actually allow him to turn into an arachnid? As a teenager, he would love nothing more than the chance to become so small no one would notice him, that he could climb onto the ceiling, build a little web, and live out the rest of his days in peace and quiet, monching softly on the dead carcasses of the pests of the world while observing those below. Nothing he did would be of consequence to anyone else, he could just exist. No one would bother him, criticize him, or judge him. Then one day he would either have the tables turned on him and become the prey or he would die peacefully, suspended in his silk web home. Yea, that sounded nice. 

Sophia spoke, pulling him from his make believe life of peace, and to his pleasant surprise, she didn’t even comment on what he had said. All she had to return was an offer of help. A flicker of hope ignited from the ashes of the determined fire he had abandoned long ago. Doubt still lingered, a cruel, cold wind trying to extinguish his fire, at the idea that she could help him. Many had tried and many more had failed. Peter didn’t seek help anymore, he only sought to offer it to others. If he couldn’t help himself, why not help those he could serve? 

Serve...serving human kind...and then he remembers. _BARF. God... I gotta work on that acronym. BARF is... an extremely costly method of hijacking the hippocampus to clear... traumatic memories._ Tony Stark’s invention combined with Sophia’s connection to him may be the key to it all. Peter felt himself allowing hope to truly settle in, setting up camp around the relit blaze in his heart, sending warm tendrils sparking across his skin. 

Sophia soon returned, and he greeted her back to the room with a cheesy smile. They went through the files and arrived back where they were at this moment. Peter could sense her unease at where he had acquired this access, her suspicion on his ability to do such, and she was smart to do so. Sophia was a lot of things after all, but she was not an idiot. Oscorp was too massive, too powerful, to allow electronic termites composed of code into their system to nibble at it’s foundation until the whole thing collapsed in on itself. They could afford the best of the best for security, well beyond anything some high school kid, no matter how smart he was, could crack. 

No doubt was spoken of though, at least not yet, instead she actually returned his smile. The corners of her eyes crinkling to highlight the genuinity of its nature and the sudden flash of sunlight off the constant rise and fall of the blue waves taking place around the shore of her pupil, caused Peter to blink, blinded by the rays, until her hair shielded him. Eyeing the strand which had sprang loose to join in the fun, to break the moment, highlighting and cutting through the thinning space between them. 

Peter cleared his throat and turned back to his screen, his safe space. He scoffed at her response. _Never say never._

“Never took you to be a Justin Bieber fan,” he teased off the cusp, though he supposed it was odder that he knew that reference. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms on his chest and eyed her curiously as she spoke her next words of wisdom. _Besides, the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are._ “Sirius Black.” He pressed his tongue against the bottom of his top row of teeth, smiling, clearly impressed, and pointed a slightly wagging finger at Sophia. “I didn’t take you for a Harry Potter fan.” He gave her a grin of approval. “Sophia Alcott Brusetti, a popular girl, secretly a nerd. I’m shook.” 

All playfulness vanished, however, as he stared intently back down at the puzzle that was the locked away vault containing the information they desired. He swallowed hard, trying not to choke on his own hubris from moments earlier as it was thrown back in his face. He was lucky his partner in crime, or justice, depending how you looked at it, was so understanding. Of course, he wasn’t out of the woods yet, he had made a crucial error. 

_Sure… I— we will probably have to plan beforehand how much we’re going to reveal to them, though, right? Particularly so, if this is someone affiliated with the business, someone who would benefit from warning Norman_

Sweating, collar suddenly tight, palms sprouting a thick layer of perspiration as he realized his mistake. He should have worded this differently. Now he could only hope she didn’t want to know who his source was. Peter was willing to abuse the power his friend had given him for this great good, after all if Norman didn’t do anything wrong it wouldn’t matter. Telling Harry though, or revealing to Sophia that he did have a slight emotional steak in this endeavor? He would prefer to avoid both of those. 

Sophia got up to retrieve their food as he pressed the button to print their first round of data. In the short time he had before she returned, he withdrew his phone and typed out a quick text to Harry. _Hey, I need something from your father’s database. My access won’t let me in. Any chance you could help?_ He heard the soft patting approach of Sophia’s feet and quickly slid the device back into his pocket. He couldn’t risk her seeing the name or the message on his home screen. 

Peter tried to rise casually out of his seat, but it came off far more robotic and rigid than it did in his mind. Retrieving the printed information, he let it float onto the countertop, and began to rummage through his bag of food. Pulling it out, he removed the lid and allowed the steam that rose up to coat his face in a Thai Food facial. His mouth instantly began to water and he wasted no time in grabbing some silverware. He was slurping down a noodle hungrily when Sophia asked what he wanted to drink. Peter paused, noodle still hanging halfway out of his mouth and looked at her wide eyed. 

“Milk,” he replied before sucking the last of the noodle into his mouth. Thai food always tended to be spicy and he needed the milk to cancel it out. He wouldn’t tell Sophia that for fear that she would mock him endlessly for being a wimp. He’d gone so far as to order one of the least spicy things on the menu, Kai Med Ma Muang on bed of noodles.

With his white savior sitting beside him as a backup, Peter sat back down at the computer and scanned over what he had just printed, the paper still warm with fresh ink impressions. Twirling his fork around some noodles with a stab to gather some chicken, he stopped the flight of food just before it reached its final destination to glance over at Sophia. 

_What’s the sitch, with you and the Luther Stickell level computer skills. You’re a dork. You’re clever. But, you wouldn’t have been so quick—without assistance. So, tell_

“Heh, what do you mean?” he asked, voice squeaking slightly with lack of confidence in his own deflection. How would she know how long it would take to hack into someone's system? She wasn’t wrong, however, and he had seen this coming with the clear suspicion in her gaze minutes ago. Peter shoved the large bite of food into his mouth to buy himself some time to come up with a good answer. It needed to be the perfect sugar coated half baked truth. 

_And, as cute as it can be to watch you fumble for excuses, I don’t have a lot of patience._

Was her cute sincere or condescending? It didn’t matter because the comment made him feel warmer than the hot pepper he had just bit into. Peter quickly picked up the glass of milk and took a gulp to combat the heat spreading like wildfire across his tongue and simultaneously rising from the back of his throat. Finally getting his internal heat flash under control, he swallowed and dabbed at his face with a napkin. 

“Let’s just say I have a friend who is very close to Oscorp and he may or may not have set me up with my own login. Mostly for science research and blueprints so I can try my own stuff out, but I guess it works for this stuff too,” he explained, stabbing a piece of chicken. His stomach roiled with poisonous guilt. As if on cue, he felt his phone vibrate against his thigh. Depositing the chicken into his mouth, Peter retrieved his phone and unlocked it to read Harry’s response. 

_I can’t give you my credentials, but I can stop by and lend a hand. This for a science project or something?_

Peter nibbled on his bottom lip as he decided what way of wording this resulted in the least amount of lying to his friend, his brother. 

_Or something. Are you around tonight?_

“Well,” Peter let out a loud sigh, setting the phone back on the counter. “He’s agreed to lend a hand.”


	6. Dark Times Ahead

**Sophia Alcott-Brusetti:**

Heaven, like God, is nothing at all if not a human construct. A reassurance. For each individual, heaven is different. Personal. Funnily enough, a wise man once said— and, of course, it was a man, for women clearly did not speak until the 20th century— that if a boar had hands, he would draw God in his image, just as we humans do. He would draw four hooves, a snout, and pointed little ears and proclaim that in this drawing alone was the face of his God. It is whatever we want it to be. Something to fill a void, to reject the very realistic notion that we, humans, and perhaps even creatures in the greater beyond, can not explain it all. We simply do not know. 

When Sophia pictured her parents in heaven, she pictured a river side. She couldn’t exactly remember what particular State it was in. Then again, this was heaven, so, did it really matter? Regardless of such practicalities, the water there was not particularly clean, and it most certainly did not flow. Ergo, one (of sense) would not really dream of drinking it, or even dipping in their toes for a splash. A child without cares does not think of such complexity, however, and could pounce around the shallows until the icy chill of night began to set, and perhaps even then longer; the mind of youth is impressionable, like a writer’s blank pages awaiting its story, not quite yet acquainted with the tragedy that is to paint it. 

Here, the sun did not pour down like honey-kissed rain, nor as an ethereal stream of guidance depicted in popular culture like The Simpsons or the much acclaimed Family Guy. Instead, the grey clouds gathered like flocks of tattered sheep, their woolly coats masking the sun behind a wintry jacket from the Earth’s chilly nature. The long grass at the side of the river blew merrily against the howling breath upon the moors nearby, and the frogs upon the lily-pads croaked in unison, a song of new beginnings, of rebirth from a storm. Her arms thrown to the air, Sophia span around, with her eyes cast upwards, until the grey clouds became indistinguishable from one another, and carried the ground beneath her feet away with them. She fell onto her bottom, with a SPLASH! A childish squeal of joy escaped her lips, as a few frogs fled for their lives, but one hopped curiously towards her, and perched upon the end of her nose. 

Cross eyed, the child watched him, to the best of her ability (which was admittedly quite difficult), and tried her utmost best not to giggle as he croaked and tickled her gently. And, as he hopped down, to her left arm, she greeted him, “Hello, Mr Frog. Have you came to free me?” She ducked a little, allowing the water to further devour her flesh, so that she could be more upon his level. In society’s fairytales, the girl would kiss the frog, and the frog would unravel, or twist and turn, or whatever it was that transforming frogs did— she couldn’t imagine it was very pain free— and turned into a beautiful prince. A prince that would thank the young girl for his freedom by whisking her away to his castle. Sophia had always thought that were rather stupid. Not, of course, because kissing a frog was unhygienic, and possibly even a little toxic or plague inducing, but because she could not imagine why anyone would want to be a human over a frog. 

Mr. Frog gave a ferocious croak, a growl of thunder, or perhaps that had been thunder itself, before it hopped away to join his family, leaving Sophia to fall back into herself. A soft sigh eluded her lips, though not one of burdens, as her eyes were enticed by the great squabble of seagulls that had accumulated above, their mighty wings seduced by the roaring winds that grew and grew. Laying back, Sophia spread her arms too, and kept her eyes skyward. She could almost pretend that she was one of them, flying. And, why not? She was just a child with her whole life ahead of her. The world was her oyster. The sky did not have to be the limit. 

“Sophia!” Her mother called, from the side. She held out her towel, ready to embrace her, to scoop her up off her feet and devour her with three thousand tiny little kisses. Sophia giggled, shaking her head defiantly and mischievously poking out her tongue: ‘no’. She didn’t want to go. It did not matter that it was cold and stormy. It did not matter that the frost would bite at her, that the heavens would shortly open (and unfortunately in more ways than one, though that was little to anybody’s knowledge). It did not matter because the world was  **ALIVE,** from the smallest tadpoles to the grandest bird’s above. From river to sky. From grassy plains to fluffy clouds. 

Her father stood, from where he had been sat at the riverside with her mother. And, having rolled up the picnic basket, he wiggled his finger and furrowed his eyebrows. He did not have to utter a single word to move her. The sincerity was plain on his face. Sophia sulked, lower lip blanketing her upper, but said little else, wading through the water, until the shallows sunk from her knees to her toes. Her mother scooped her up, just as she supposed she would, and gestured with a raspberry that it was freezing cold. Sophia didn’t care. She liked the cold. The cold felt alive. It felt like an adventure. Having said this aloud, her mother gave a small chuckle, tilted her daughter’s head to meet her eyes, with two fingers beneath her chin, and she kissed her forehead only once. But, it was long, three thousand lifetimes long, and thoughtful, and the young child pondered what on Earth was running through her mind. She did not ask though. Instead she enjoyed the moment, and she smiled. And, her mother smiled. And, her father smiled. And, thirty minutes down the road, they never smiled again.

If Sophia had to think of Heaven, it would have been these moments, right before her parents died, when the world had been most alive. When her world had been most alive, because they were there. At times, she pondered whether she had been in a fairytale after all. Perchance, the howling wind was the screaming warnings of Mother Nature. Perhaps, Mr Frog was trying to save her after all. Or, maybe it was all her fault. Maybe, Mr. Frog had secretly been a wicked witch, and her wish to him had been sickeningly granted. All of this, she had confessed, just once, to one of the psychiatrists that had actually managed to crack her exterior. She was still only young, perhaps eight or nine. But, the psychiatrist had laughed, proclaimed her ludicrous. Sophia had never opened up again. Of course, now, she understood that there was no such thing as fairytales, Mother Nature, and frog-disguised ‘wicked witches’. It was just a coping mechanism for a scared and confused child. A child who did not understand that the evils of this world, did not hide in illusions but, lived amongst us. They were not witches, wizards, demons or monsters. They were people.  **People** were to blame for the death of her parents, the death of her childhood. And, this was fine, because she was going to ensured these people paid. 

Funny, really, Peter was deprived of his memories— well, some of them— and so he could not remember anything, the good, the bad, and the downright painful. He was not motivated for vengeance or any kind of self proclaimed justice. He was, at least outwardly, embracive, acceptant, content. But, did she envy him? No, not really -- in fact, not at all. For every one heartbreaking memory, scarred into the delicate tissue of her brain, were five beautiful ones, reminders that she had once been loved, and was capable of being loving, being loved. Peter had that anyway, sure. He had his Aunt. Yet, Sophia was quite certain that no matter how much Ms. Parker tried, there was a family shaped hole in his life which one person simply could not fill, no matter how much love and devotion that they poured inside. Though the subject moved on, this was not an obstacle that Sophia could mentally overcome, like some sort of demonic entity, it clung to the shell of her very being, and it shadowed her every thought, action, and movement.

_ I didn’t take you for a Harry Potter fan. Sophia Alcott Brusetti, a popular girl, secretly a nerd. I’m shook.  _ Placing the palm of her hand to her forehead, Sophia had feigned panic, her lower lip curling away from the top, as though a-feared. “Oh no, my big secret is out,” she said, dryly, in a manner to rival Stark himself in sark. If she had to pick a thing to fangirl over, it was obviously going to be Harry Potter. Spanning 2001-2018, if one were to include Fantastic Beasts — and you’d have to be pretty insane not to — it had been a part of her life longer so than her parents had been. Besides, time aside, it was impossible to argue that the creation of the wizarding world, parallel to our own, with its own laws, customs, and traditions, was not the work of a genius through and through. “Don’t worry, dork. No matter how hard I try, I’d never be a competitor for you, even on a bad day. I’m just a quick learner”. Slender shoulders rolled backwards, as she shoved her food in-between her lips. With her hand before them, to politely refrain from doing anything embarrassing, she chewed momentarily, before quickly swallowing. “Pop culture references seem to be one of the things you can quickly wrap your head around, so I’m simply speaking a language that you understand. You see, now I can add ‘Dork’ to my list of English, Spanish, German and Russian”. Before he could react, she rolled her eyes, and interjected, “hey, don’t judge; when the next Cold War rains down upon us, the World will be thankful that I thought ahead”.

Loosely, she brushed free from her fan-girl label, allowing it to puddle from her mind to the floor at her toes, with a shrug of her slender shoulders backwards and a forkful of noodles. There were, after all, more important matters at hand. Such as, for example, how she’d left Peter Parker in her atrium and came back to DC’s Noah Kuttler, a man well versed in the art of hacking and manipulating the 1s and 0s of coding. There was no distracting her from something once she’d stuck her mind to it, no matter how hard Parker tried.  _ Heh, what do you mean? _ She tilted her head from across the counter, eyebrows raised, and allowed her fork to sink into the take away so that she could judgmentally strap her arms beneath her chest.  _ Let’s just say I have a friend who is very close to Oscorp and he may or may not have set me up with my own login. Mostly for science research and blueprints so I can try my own stuff out, but I guess it works for this stuff too _ . She believed him, though notedly could see that he was not as such lying but rather evading the truth. Peter Parker was attempting to tip-toe around a delicate situation, only he didn’t realise his own limitations. Parker… he didn’t do tip-toeing, he simply didn’t have the grace, being born as a blessed clutz, if Sophia ever did see one. “Mhm,” was all she said, not removing her eyes from him in a maternal like, i-know-you-bs-ing-me-boy kinda glare. She made no attempt to corner him. What was the point? Why risk pushing him away when the truth was literally just around the corner? She’d see, soon enough. 

And, so, she forked another heap of joy in between her lips, and guzzled the spicy contents, omni-scient in her cynicism. 

**Harry Osborn:**

****_ HUMAN BEINGS MAKE LIFE SO INTERESTING,  _ SAID DEATH _. DO YOU KNOW, THAT IN A UNIVERSE SO FULL OF WONDERS, THEY HAVE MANAGED TO INVENT BOREDOM? _ \-- Terry Prachett. Although, Harry wasn’t exactly sure what book he’d rifled that from. He’d never read ‘em, his books. ‘Didn’t really have the time; between his father’s business meetings, in which he was supposed to shadow, mimic, learn, and the drowning pages of schoolwork, he hardly found the time to breath. Nonetheless, he’d picked the quote up somewhere. No doubt from Peter Parker, his old-time friend, a boy who he’d probably once called a brother. 

“What do you think, Harry?” His father peered at him, looking down at his son in more ways than one. Osborn etched a million dollar smile upon his face. Smile and nod, that was what he actually learned during these meetings. Well, that and also… nobody actually cared about what you think. More times than not, they simply wanted someone to look as though they cared about their mere irrelevance and to promptly agree. Smile. And, nod. Drumming his fingers impatiently upon the desk before him, that was exactly what the young heir did, sucking in his lips in an attempt to maintain his poker face, to not show the blankness which he truly felt in aspects of current circumstances. 

“I thoroughly agree with you Mr. Osborn”. Mr.Osborn was the title that his father demanded of him, not Norman, not dad. And, why would he ever dream of even toying with the latter term? It was informal, and it was also… not true. Norman was no dad. He didn’t take his son to football games, nor did he take the time to teach him how to ride a bike, or how to catch a fish, or even take the time to tell him the time of day. Norman was nothing but a business associate. And, Harry’s life was nothing but business. There was not a spectre of air reserved for the joys of emotion, sentimentality. He had to think practical, long term, it was simply how he had been made. “Any other…” he ran his tongue along the inside of his lips, attempting to find, to taste, the correct word. “... **_alternative_** ,” he settled upon, _“_ would simply be too time-consuming, a complete waste of company facilities”.

This seemed to appease those around, as he had quite suspected, and calm the beast enough to maintain his rage for just a little while. Until the next time. Slumping back into his seat, Osborn eyed the clock above the glass wall, and refrained from releasing a hot breath of air. Seconds passed like minutes in here. He ought to let the conspiracists in the Daily Buggle onto that one. That’s give them something to talk to. Ha. Though, given his current circumstances, Harry would bury his nose in an article or two about ‘Mind Controlling Maniacs’ and ‘Web-Shooting Wonders’ in a heartbeat, so long as it gave him a way to pass the time. 

Bored shitless, he edged out his phone, from his blazer pocket. He didn’t anticipate any texts, perhaps the odd few, a ‘when can I see you again?’ from his latest fling, or some  **‘BREAKING NEWS’** from the New York Bulletin— which he had subscribed to, finding it a lot more suitably factual than storytelling. In truth, it didn’t particularly matter what tabloid you stuck to these days. The news was largely swarmed with the same stuff: masked vigilantes and capes crusaders. Because, apparently, the world could not stop the madness at eating pods of detergent and pelvic thrusting the “swish” for a like or two on some kind of social media platform. Regardless, to say that Harry Osborn anticipated any sort of text— let alone one from his long lost friend, Peter Parker— would be to tell a  _ complete _ and  _ utter _ lie. 

The meeting transgressed and, at last, the group of men swarmed through the doors in a tidal wave of suits. Having responded to Peter, and his curiosity being as piqued as always, he was ready for a Nancy Drew esque investigation, or whatever kind of cutting edge nonsense his best friend was about to pour upon him. Most importantly though, he was largely thankful to be leaving, at last, what he thought would be an eternal torment of nothingness; boredom, the worst invention of man-kind. 

“Harry,” his father cleared his throat, a nod of his head to his sons former seat told him that this torture was anything but quite over. Agitated, crestfallen, and a little exasperated, the younger man huffed and puffed, but made no attempt at all at airing his frustration. In fact, he did quite the contrary, slinking back into the luxury black-leather seat, and meeting his father’s eye with a solemn smile, a smile which said ‘I respect you’ rather than ‘go fuck yourself’, which was, admittedly, what he would much rather say. 

“Something wrong, Mr. Osborn?” Dwindling the urge to fiddle nervously with his fingers, Harry intertwined his hands into a firm ball upon the desk. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he silently fretted on whether his father had somehow caught him on his phone. He’d been so stealthy though! It had taken a great deal of practice— and many, bottomless pits of meetings— but he’d become a little pro, if he said so himself, that was. “If this is about my decision earlier, I’m sorry if something I said was to your disagreement. I just…” think fast, think fast, “can’t help it. You raised a man of principles. I think something, found it in the evidence, and I stick to it. That’s what us Osborn men are about… right?” Eh. If Norman would have asked his son what exactly his principles were on this particular matter, he would have quickly found that his words were nothing at all but empty air. Perhaps, that was, after all, what the Osborns were about: empty promises, shallow emotions, and complete disregard for any matters at all that weren’t entirely grounded inside themselves. 

“Your uncertainty is unsettling, and you are hardly an _Osborn_ _man_ ,” Norman growled. In truth, this did not particularly phase Harry, whom had found, through many years, that his father was like a small dog. He yapped, he barked, he growled… but when it came to biting, well… again, empty words. “However— although it is very clear that, once more, you lack the brain cells to divulge anything of import to our meetings, and your brain is clearly too hollow to absorb much at all— that was _not_ what I wished to talk to you about”. Surprise. Hurt. Anger. These could be things that Harry felt, at the sharp knife his own father plunged into his gut. Yet, if he did, they did not make it any further than the twist of his gut and the devouring of his heart by his soured stomach. His face, ultimately, remained devoid of light and emotion. “What I wanted to talk to you about was about our old, mutual friends, the Parkers”. 

He could not hide, unlike the poker face upon his sharpened features, how his shoulders arched and his pupils dilated. And, this did not go amiss by his father, whose own eyes narrowed, like a lion with an unfortunate little antelope. “Do you have something to say, Harry?” He shook his head, no. Not yet, at least. “What I wanted to talk to you about was the log-in that we admitted Peter”. It was no secret that his son had given the nervous little Parker boy access, for Harry had, wisely, for once, sought permission first. Norman didn’t mind. Not really. He’d simply implicated restrictions and had the system monitored. Often, Oscorp got the first on Peter’s ideas, in return for giving him all the tools that was. Often, he was not snooping into places that a little Parker boy ought not to be, A.K.A accounts and transactions. 

“Heh?” He wheezed, wondering if he ought to be honest about Peter’s recent texts, and also quite, understandably, scared at how his father had so quickly acquired such information. Could he read his mind? Had he bugged his phone? Was he testing him? After all, his father was manic paranoid but he was not a wizard, at least not to his knowledge. (Although, people were all kinds of crazy things these days! And, he never, in his wildest dreams, would have imagined that his oldest pal was the Web Shooting Wonder, they proclaimed “Spider-Man”). There was so much… unknown, these days, and Harry despised it. He hated it. 

Coughing to mask his vulnerability, he attempted to regain to familiar colour by tugging upon his collar, which felt as though it had tightened incredibly in the last few moments alone. “What about it?” He decided to feign ignorance, to play his father’s game, before immediately dropping Parker into it. “Is Peter in trouble?” His fingers attempted to snake from his fist, as though they had a life of their own, but chowing down, mightily, upon his lower lip, was enough to give restraint, for now. 

“I received intelligence, during the meeting, that Parker was attempting to receive access to places—“ Norman paused, clapping his tongue to the roof of his mouth as though he could taste something that he did not quite like. Something sour. Something bitter. Something which equally angered and troubled him, in a way that Harry had never hitherto seen. “—places where  _ children _ do not belong”. Harry’s spine straightened, aloof, untouching of anything. What on Earth was Peter getting himself into? “I want you to go pay our old friend a visit, find out what he’s trying to access and who for”. His father was right, in his suspicions, he supposed, for once. If Peter was trying to access private things — which wasn’t at all like his nature — in so betraying his friends trust — there had to be a working force of evil behind it. A master puppeteer, pulling all the strings.

The younger Osborn simply nodded, finding himself in mimic of his father, tasting the words which he had been fed. He found that he did not quite like the fleshy flavour of betrayal, but he was neither the chef nor critique, and merely had to work with what he was given. “I’ll go and check on him today,” he decided upon airing, at last, “and give you a report tomorrow”.

“Tonight,” Norman corrected him. “I want a report tonight. Attend my study when you return home. I expect we’ll have a lot to talk about”. 

  
  


**Norman Osborn:**

**Cancer** . 

It was an umbrella term really. A name that they gave to something that they didn’t understand; that they couldn’t cure; that they— meaning anyone who didn’t immediately rush to Norman’s aid—were too God damn lazy to do anything about. Couldn’t wasn’t a word, you see, not to Norman. Couldn’t was an excuse for people who didn’t want to try. 

And, everyone else in this God foresaken world may have given up on him. But, that didn’t matter. That did not matter one bit. Because Norman didn’t need Doctors, or Scientists, or the Love of family. All that Norman Osborn needed was himself. And he’d be damned if he let a puny child like Peter Benjamin Parker get in the way of his recovery. 

In just three more nights, 72 measly hours, he was going to break history.

He was going to change science — THE WORLD — as people knew it.

The name Osborn, would go down, forever, in history.

They’d see. 

They’d all see. 

**Sophia Alcott-Brusetti:**

“Nuh-uh, come on, don’t cop out now,” Sophia chuckled, placing down her fork so that she could grasp the counter, lean forth in all her excitement. “That’s not an answer. You made me confess that I cried at Stranger Things Season 3 and that I practically planned my wedding day with Titans’ Richard Grayson. You can at least tell who your celebrity crush is, fictional or not”. Eyebrows raised, she leant back, a playful challenging smirk etching from cheek to cheek. Once more, she picked up her cutlery, and shovels another forkful of noodles hungrily in between her lips. “Mm,” she tried to speak, having a thought spring to her conscious as she ate merrily. Lifting her free hand to her lips, she paused, swallowed, and added, “you were definitely the kind of kid who drooled over Leia Organa. An Eric Foreman kind of boy, true and true”. 

The two of them had moved their conversation forward, with Sophia having decided that maybe she ought to dig a little deeper into who exactly her partner in crime, or rather (inadvertently) justice, was. Apparently, this consisted of a few confessions and, surprise surprise, a whole lot more of pop culture references. To a pleasant reversal of fortune, it also had managed to conjure a fair deal of laughs and chuckles, smiles too, and maybe… just maybe… a little bit of friendship. 

“If it helps, nothing you can confess would be that embarrassing, and I really doubt it would be surprising. I mean, when I was younger, I wanted to dye my hair Orange because I literally wanted to become Barbara Gordon. And, no,” she gave him a scolding, warning, glare, before he could butt in, “it wasn’t just because I had “the hots” for Brendon Thwaites. Look at her, she’s kick ass, a million times better than Leia. I mean, what does Leia actually even do for herself in the original trilogy?” A small scoff. The noodles were packed away, the fork flung into the sink and the box put aside for recycling. Sophia stood, turned to the fridge once more, and pulled out another drink of cola. The can was popped open, guzzled, before placed back on the counter. Peter still had his milk, which she tried not, pointedly, to embarrass him about too much. “Are you sure you don’t want some cookies with that?” She gestured in the meantime. Of course, she wasn’t really avoiding jokes at his expense. What kind of person would that make her then? Certainly, not herself. “Or, what about a bedtime story?”

Near snorting, she bit down on her lower lip, an attempt to refrain from displaying the obvious fact that she was enjoying herself, for once in her life, with no one else other than ‘Penis Parker’ himself, Midtown High’s biggest victim and World’s biggest dork. “Anyway,” she sipped not slurped— not because she was ever so classy, but simply cautious of giving her partner any sort of ammo to fire back with— the can, and continued. “I’d take Barbara Gordon any day over Supergirl, and Superman alike, there’s something kinda rewarding, y’know, about working hard for something and not having it handed to you on a plate, or rather from the sun”. Perhaps, this went a lot deeper than shallow appreciation. Perhaps, it resonated with the lavish lifestyle she had become accustomed to. Or, perhaps, not.

  
  


There was a knock on the door. And, instantly, the girl that had crawled to the surface, after being buried alive for so very long, was suffocated once more. Any expression of warmth, of youth and playfulness, was devoid upon her doll-like porcelain features. Sophia met Peters eyes. And, for a moment, she was frozen, a little scared to move on to the next chapter, but aware that choosing not turning the pages did not change the story nor its ending. What had happened, what would happen, was inevitable. Reality. Truth. She shrunk back from the table, eyes to the door, at last. Chin high, eyebrows raised, she pointed her finger at him— wriggling it scoldingly, demandingly like a mother— she declared, “wait, there, a second”.

And, so, she moved forth, and with a firm tug of her door, she embraced the next chapter of her life and knocked down the first domino in a chain reaction that would change  **EVERYTHING** they all knew sure in their lives.

The future had arrived.

**Harry Osborn:**

Harry removed the cigarette clamped between his two lips, and, grinding his teeth, he extinguished it between the heel of his boot and the ground beneath. Smoking kills. It was a dirty, filthy habit. So,  _ they _ claimed. He didn’t care about his health or what others said. So,  _ he _ claimed. His eyes ran along the vast height of the metallic giant before him, as his mind worked overtime, imagining, processing, what kind of foe lurked inside. So far, he had concluded that his initial presumptions were nothing but accurate. The Atelier— the building at the address Peter had given him— was in the Upper East side of Hell’s Kitchen, meaning that whoever Parker’s new buddy was… was a rich douche, alike himself.

Had… had Peter  _ replaced _ him?

Psh. What did he care? He didn’t have time for trivialities. Whoever Pete wanted to build Death Stars — and apparently sabotage cooperations— with, was his own business. Osborn was here for two reasons only. First, he was God damn intrigued as to what on Earth a sixteen year old needed Oscorp’s transaction history with. Secondly, his father had asked him to, and that made it a demand rather than a choice anyway, interested or not interested. 

  
  


Having parked up and locked his bike, Osborn left his helmet on the handlebars, and made his way inside the building. His right hand nervously ran through his tousled, mousey locks, as he paced down the corridor of the Reception towards the elevator. Probing the button, with an excessive jab, he waited, arms strapped across his chest in a shut-off expression, and pondered a little more about what Peter’s new friend would be like. Was he short, or tall like him? Was he slim or large? Dark or light? Did he like Star Wars? Did the two of them build the Millennium Falcon together and watch back to back classics, from “Back To The Future” to Spielberg’s “E.T”. 

Who cared? Not him. Not him, okay? Who even had the seconds to waste on stupid childish things like the newest Lego 21103 Back To The Future ‘DeLorean Time Machine’? Most certainly not Harry Osborn. 

‘Ahem’, clearing his throat, the young billionaire stepped out of the elevator and, with a deep exhalation, paced towards the door at the end. This was it. This was the right place. Here goes nothing. Raising a fist, Harry knocked thrice upon the thick, heavy wood. The sound echoed all around him. Behind the oak were muffled voices— voices which had now stopped, and had been indistinguishable, no matter how hard he listened— and the scraping of chairs. Footsteps, now. The pattering of footsteps. He wondered, now, if this was a trap. What if someone had hacked Peter and—

“Pete?” He croaked, as the door opened. He’d meant to sound strong, brave, intimidating. In truth, he felt broken. And now; confused.

“Harry?!” A girlish voice exclaimed. The last time he checked— maybe, he was simply recalling wrong— Parker hadn’t sounded so… girlish. At least, not that much. Peering down, a quiet ‘oh’ eluded his lips, as his grey eyes bestowed upon angelic features from another lifetime. Sophia. Sophia Alcott-Brusetti. And, apparently, Peter Parker’s girlfriend. Nice to know that Pete valued ‘bros over hoes’—  **not** . Man, he was furious. No, he was downright pissed, all this betrayal… for a girl? For  **_her_ ** , nonetheless?

“Sophia?”

Thick, dark eyebrows furrowed.

His forehead scrunched beneath immense discombobulation. 

A million questions swarmed his head at once. They devoured him, drowned him. He scarcely felt like he could breathe. He couldn’t. His chest rose, fell, went through all of the motions, but no air filled his insides… only questions. How did these two even know each other? What did Peter want him for? Why did he reach out now, after so long? What did any of this even mean? And, like a top Class A douchebag, fulfilling expectations, the only words he could manage to sneer were, “so, what…  _ you’re _ dating Parker now?” 

He felt like an idiot, as though he should have seen it all coming some how. His father certainly would have expected to. His eyes darted instantly over her shoulder, eager to avoid  _ them _ memories. And,  _ sure as hell _ , there  _ he _ sat, perched upon the kitchen stool, and sipping milk nonetheless. What a joke. What an absolute fucking joke. 

At last, he pulled himself together, shoulders arching back, chin held high, and spat, “are we all just gonna stand and gawp, or is someone gonna actually conjure the brain cells to explain what is going on here?”

  
  
  


**Peter Parker:**

The ease at which Harry agreed to come over, even made himself available within the hour, was unbalancing. Harry Osborn’s time had become an increasingly hard commodity to come by. Something Peter had learned the hard way. 

First Harry had transferred schools, Norman thinking the public education system was beneath his son. There would be no more science projects, protecting each other from being snapped with a towel, or lunch time discussions of Star Wars vs. Star Trek. 

Then he started working for Norman, which took up a lot of his free time. Taking him out of any academic decathlons, sports, or long bike rides around central park. The final blow to their relationship was Harry’s growing popularity, and who could blame people, he was rich, handsome, and edgy. There was no time for plain Peter Parker, the boy who lingered at his lame public school, had no internship to speak of, and enough friends to count on one hand. In fact, he couldn’t even recall the last time he had seen Harry. Maybe it was his last birthday dinner, an event May still invited Harry to, without Peter’s permission, an invitation he knew Harry probably felt he couldn’t turn down. May was the closest thing he had ever known to a mother and she would not let him slip through her fingers so easily. She perhaps clung on to whatever rotting stump remained of their family tree harder than Peter.

Harry had faded from their lives slowly, a picture left to bleach out in the sun, until he was but another memory on the shelf. Just another person to step out of the revolving door of Peter’s life. Peter didn’t resent Harry for leaving him behind, but it felt like a sliver in his heart, one he couldn’t reach. So, it lingered and the only person who could extract it was one and the same with the person who had put it there. 

Harry had known them, Peter’s parents, Ben, they shared that connection, that loss, and he was the only one of them that remembered Peter’s parents. Losing Harry was like losing the last photo album, the last audio book of what they were like from a similar perspective of his own at that age. Maybe that was part of why Harry distanced himself, maybe it was too much for him to constantly have to recall things for Peter, to be the index to someone else’s life. 

Harry was older, so naturally Peter had always looked up to Harry for guidance, to fix his mistakes when they were younger, to help him through it all. Harry Osborn had been his lifeboat in the vast sea of pain that had flooded every crevice of his being when they’d passed and were followed by Ben shortly thereafter. Until Harry set him overboard, deciding that Peter was weighing him down, and rowed off to shore without him. Peter would have felt like he was drowning if it hadn’t been for the ease Harry had lowered him into the sea. Going to a new school, Peter felt the water lap at his toes. Taking up after his father and expelling all his free time to Oscorp, the cold, saltiness of the sea encased his body, simultaneously wetting and drying it. Finally, finding friends to replace him, the rest of him splashed in, water filling his nose, ears, and throat, stinging his eyes, until he finally swam up, only to watch the retreating form of the lifeboat. A lifeboat he’d given up swimming after.

Peter felt his leg begin to jitter up and down in apprehension, he should have let it be. Harry coming here was a bad idea. The circumstances were nothing but treasonous ones at that, though Peter would call into question any vow of loyalty he had towards Harry Osborn, he’d be a hypocrite to accuse Peter of such a thing. Then there was the issue of Sophia’s reaction when the son of the man she sought to put behind bars showed up at her door. There was no doubt that once Harry was here, it wouldn’t be a secret who he was. Sophia merely had to watch the news once in a great while to know his face, his connection to Oscorp, and ultimately the person who would suffer the greatest if her accusations and hunches were correct. 

Feeling Sophia’s eyes burning holes in his own, Peter involuntarily gulped. He picked up his milk in an effort to pass it off as a swallow instead, averting his eyes to look around at the suddenly interesting kitchen design. Her stare chiseled at his reserve little by little, scratching at the still drying ink of his story. He was relieved when the discussion shifted to something he was comfortable with, Pop Culture. 

Sophia knew far more than he would have thought, matching him on most things. She was versed in the heroes, the magic, and the shows. Coming to meet him reference for reference, becoming almost as impassioned as he was, he could see the flint being sparked behind her eyes, but never quiet setting the fire ablaze. A similar sparkle lit Peter’s eyes every time another interest of his came up, they twinkled with the joy of an excited child, innocent and pure. He didn’t buy into the “too cool to love something” attitude many of his peers did. He had no shame over loving something, yet still apologized everytime he caught himself practically yelling about a fan theory. 

“If you didn’t cry at the end of Season 3 then you have no soul,” Peter countered, voice muffled by the bite of food he was finishing, pointing his fork at her before shoving it back into the container for the last couple of pieces. He eyed her as he chewed, spotting the back glow of happiness in her face. She couldn’t let it shine, but it lingered behind the curtain ready to perform a number at any moment. Peter gasped in insulted disbelief. 

“Leia? You really peg me for some basic Leia lover?” In feigned disgust, Peter tossed his fork into his empty container. “You don’t know me at all. I’m not into damsels in distress,” he said, dragging his hand through the air to dismiss the idea. “I was more of a Padame fan. She was royalty, but she didn’t sit on her throne indulging in anything she wanted because she could. Padame trained herself in combat, to shoot a laser blaster, and actually cared about her people. She knew government, policies, and traveled to try and ensure them a better life.” He leaned forward on his elbow, holding up his pointer finger. “Then there’s the scene in Clone Wars where,” his finger dove into the counter pressing into it on each word to emphasize his point,” _ she _ rescues  _ herself  _ from certain death. Without missing a beat she undid her own restraints and climbed to the top of that pillar where she beat a giant Nexu with a chain  _ wham,”  _ he swung his arm through the air as if holding that very chain himself, “before kicking it to the ground.  _ Bam! _ ” Peter raised his hands towards the sky and shrugged. “The prequels can suck but they gave us Padame and for that we are blessed.” 

Satisfied with his speech, Peter crossed his arms over his chest, nodding to himself. Thinking over his flawless argument, he processed what he’d said. What had he just said?! Peter felt a feverish heat settle on his face and spread down his neck. He’d given his fiery Padame monologue to a girl, a girl he barely knew. The only people he’d ever spoken those words to were Ned and Harry, in defense for his queen. Oh no, she was never going to let him live this one down.

Desperate to move on he continued, “A-and Hermione Granger is pretty cool too. I mean she was one of my biggest crushes. Witty, intelligent, independent, obsessed with knowledge. Unlike some people, I’m not oblivious to the fact that Harry and Ron would have been toast without her. Plus, Emma Watson is equally gorgeous and smart.” Peter had always had a thing for Hermione Granger, a sentiment that changed when he got older. When he’d lost his parents, he had turned to those movies for comfort, solace. Harry was an orphan like him, his parents had died for a good cause, and he felt lost in a world where everyone knew them but him. Similar to Harry Potter, Peter had desired someone like Hermione to be his guide. She was gentle, empathetic, determined, and always there. However, when the seventh film had come out, when Hermione Granger had erased her parents’ memories and left them...Peter had felt so angry. Who was she to decide something like that? He remembered the moment from the book, how it was for their safety, but he didn’t care. It was their choice to decide if they wanted to remember. It wasn’t her place. It didn’t make them safer, it would only cause them a lifetime of sorrow, of fogginess, of a strange emptiness they couldn’t understand, couldn’t fill. He supposed his own brain had made a similar decision on his behalf, tossing out everything from his parents, only leaving specks of what once was behind.

Peter softly fiddled with his glass, turning it slowly on the table top. He always liked to think that after it all there was some way to restore what she had taken from them. That she had finished with the Battle of Hogwarts and gone home to them, embraced in their arms once more, their memories of her restored. A vision he clung on for himself, a hope that he too could remember. 

Neither of those were that embarrassing though, and after Sophia had opened up to him he felt he should return the favor. “You swear not to tell?” he asked, voice dropping seriously. “This never leaves this room okay? No one knows about this but May.” Peter leaned across the table, his eyes shifting from one end of the room to the other, looking for any sign of a fly on the wall. “Gadget from Rescue Rangers, and before you say it yes she is a mouse, no I don’t have a thing for animals, I am not a furry, but I had a crush on her personality I guess. She kinda inspired my inventor side, along with Mr. Stark of course,” he trailed, rubbing at his upper arm. 

Sophia spilled her guts about her desire to take on the identity of one of the strongest female leads of their time. Batgirl herself, the one to infiltrate a seemingly boy’s club of heroes and hold her own. She was less sexualized than most of her female counterparts and also one of the most badass women out there. Peter wasn’t surprised by her desire, after all, she practically was the caped crusader.

“Ya know, I could see that. That must be why you are so keen to play detective, back to your Barbara Gordon roots.” He pointed at the roots of his hair for emphasis on his lame joke. “Come on, that is not as embarrassing as having a childhood crush on a mouse,” he said at his own expense. Peter realized it made everything a hell of a lot less awkward if you owned up to your own oddities. 

Peter gave her a pointed look at the mention of the cookies and rolled his eyes, pushing off the counter he sent the top of the stool spinning around, his voice growing louder and quieter as he revolved towards and away from Sophia. “Only if you have Oreos and then only if you also have peanut butter to dip said Oreos in.” He gripped the counter abruptly halting himself and stared at her expectantly. “Oh a story, that’d be nice. Tell me the one about how you cried at the end of Stranger Things Season 3 again please.” An impish smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. Sophia wasn’t the only one who could do comebacks. 

He squinted at her as if suspicious of her intent as she came to take purchase on the seat parallel to his once again, sipping her soda with the etiquette of a true queen, just like Padame would have done.  _ “I’d take Barbara Gordon any day over Supergirl, and Superman alike, there’s something kinda rewarding, y’know, about working hard for something and not having it handed to you on a plate, or rather from the sun” _

Scratching at the side of his neck, Peter gave a half hearted chuckle. Had this conversation come up a couple months ago, he would have wholeheartedly agreed with her, but he’d seen the other side now too. Been the one gaining powers overnight, fumbling about, praying he didn’t kill someone on accident. “Yea, but, I mean, that doesn’t necessarily mean they don’t work hard. Like, okay imagine.” His arm slid towards her a little on the counter, passion taking over any sense of self awareness. “One day, it takes a lot of effort to lift say, a desk, and then,” he snapped his fingers, “like that, it takes no effort at all. You can lift a one hundred and fifty pound desk with the same ease as a piece of paper. In fact, you can lift up to 170 times your body mass. You end up ripping doors off hinges, throwing things harder than you planned, things like that. Now, you are a danger to everyone around you, including yourself.” the way he had posed the whole thing was as if it was a theoretical, yet, his tone told another story, one of familiarities, of a certainty that only came from personal experience. 

  
  


“Batman, Batgirl, they choose the life, they go out of their way to give themselves the skills and gadgets they have. The others? They weren’t really given a choice, on their abilities, but they choose to accept it, hone it, and use it for everyone else. They could sit by and do nothing. Enjoy the perks of being able to light a fire with their eyes, fly to any vacation destination of their choosing, but they don’t and that’s what makes them super.” It was a choice Peter had made as well, to use his powers for the greater good. To make the world a little safer of a place to live, even if all it had amounted to so far were a couple of robbery stops and acting as a human GPS for anyone lost in Queens. 

Peter’s eyes widened, his heart stopped, his body suddenly frozen in time, staring at the door and who he thought stood on the other side. His eyes flickered to his phone, it was silent, no new notifications, nothing new from Harry. Maybe it was someone else? 

The thought pushes back some of his mounting nerves and he casually takes a sip from his glass of milk, trying to peek around Sophia to see who was at her door. Whoever it was was awfully soft spoken, he couldn’t hear anything they said. It could not have possibly been Harry then, though his friend wasn’t loud, he was confident and firm in tone. 

_ Harry?! _

Sophia’s voice shattered any false assurance Peter had given himself. His eyes bulged, suddenly desperate to not have to witness anything their owner was about to do, they’d rather not process his embarrassment for him. Their eyes met, Harry’s gaze lacking the usual light of life, his Spring like features replaced with the slow coming of Fall, of deadness. Peter gave a sheepish wave, following Harry’s gaze to his glass of milk. This must truly look ridiculous. Whatever Harry said next was too hushed for Peter to hear. 

Slipping from the stool, Peter realized his mistake. The way Sophia had said Harry’s name like she’d said it one hundred times in this life. He should have guessed they would know each other, their parents had worked together. Screw his cognitive biases for deciding not to piece that information together. Why else would she suspect Oscorp if not for some sort of close relation, rather enemies or friends. 

Ringing his hands together, Peter jogged over to the door. “Uuuh hey Harry! Long time no see…heh heh…” Why was he so tense? Harry’s presence had never wound him up like this before, had never put him on edge. 

_ are we all just gonna stand and gawp, or is someone gonna actually conjure the brain cells to explain what is going on here? _

“Right, uh yea sorry,” he said breathlessly. “So uh, you two know each other then?” he asked pointing between them. “Well, then, uh, no need for introductions?” Peter only hoped that the two were on good terms, or this was about to get a lot more complicated.

With a robotic rigidness, Peter clamped his hand on Harry’s shoulder, going through the puppetting of friendship. “I think it would be best if you were to come in and sit down. I can explain everything.”  _ Or lie to you enough for you to help and clear your father’s name.  _ Guilt punched him in the gut like a ship trying to dock on a rough sea, that sea being his churning stomach acid. Gently, so as not to pressure his friend or seem overly eager, Peter pushed Harry towards the counter where they had been sat moments before. “I really appreciate you coming over here. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important. You coming here so quickly, I well, I wasn’t expecting that.” No, he had expected to be blown off again, ignored, shoved back into the closet, to perhaps be penciled in a month later for a quick chat over coffee. “So, how’ve you been?” Peter’s voice rose back to his usual airy friendliness. 

Moving to the opposite side of the island, he placed his palms against it, the coolness grounding him in the moment. Peter refused to look in Sophia's direction, completely focused on Harry, he wasn't ready for her reaction yet. His eyebrows rose close to his hairline, his lip pulled into a thin line, exposing his awkward hesitation with the pieces of this rather dangerous game of chess. Sophia, the queen, sat ready to make her way to the end of the board and dethrone King Norman Osborn, while Harry the loyal knight was mounted upon his steed likely ready to defend his father at all costs. Then there was Peter, he wasn’t sure where he fell on that board, he was no knight, nor was he royalty or a man of religion, and he was admittedly undecided what side of the board he stood with. He was simply one of the extra pieces that came in the box, waiting on the sidelines to be used for whichever team needed him most.


End file.
